


The House of Green & Black

by Smaragaide



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Regency, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Drama, F/M, Georgian Period, Heavy Angst, Historical Romance, Misunderstandings, Older Man/Younger Woman, Plot Twists, Suspense, True Love, ghost story, high emotions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-04-11 14:49:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 213,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19111888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smaragaide/pseuds/Smaragaide
Summary: Lady Sansa Stark is the orphaned offspring of the late Duke and Duchess of Winterfell. Her family executed for inciting a revolution against the new king, she was allowed to live when she recanted but failed to convince her family to follow suit. Sent to live with her aunt, the Duchess of the Vale, she fell into despair for now she was a social pariah. Stripped of title, inheritance, lands and considered unmarriageable as the daughter of a traitor. Dancing with a dark stranger at a ball for the duchess's son, she was cast out to live with her drunken and gambling uncle in Riverrun.One night, her uncle in a desperate attempt to win back his estate from gambling, bets and loses his niece to two unsavory men of the local gentry. That is until an unlikely savior appears in the form of the new (and very wealthy) Marquess of Harrenhal, notorious for his swift rise into the aristocracy by means of smuggling, gambling and becoming the top financial advisor to the Royal Family.A relationship of lies, secrets, betrayal, love and sacrifice. What are you willing to do for the love of your life?





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

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Lightning lit up the night sky as thunder cracked resembling the rifle fire that shook the young girl from a troubled sleep. The thunderstorm had kept her awake most of the night as it roared and rumbled across the county. Sansa never cared for the Riverlands, as the locals called it. She longed for home or even that of The Eyrie. Her aunt, the Duchess of the Vale, was a cold and fearsome woman but at least there were fine suppers, balls, vast gardens and the city where one could bide their time.

Here, in the house of her Uncle Edmure, Earl of Riverrun, there was only housework to welcome her every day. Fitting, after a year of solitude here, she thought bitterly. The king allowed her to retain the address of "Lady" more for the mere ridicule and disdain than that of respect. For here, in the Riverlands, in the home of the last family that was willing to take in the daughter of a traitor, did she feel nothing like a lady of a once grand house. Sansa was no longer a marchioness, daughter of the late Duke of Winterfell, but now a glorified nursemaid to her drunken, gambling uncle. She was only Lady Sansa in name yet treated as the lowest of the peerage as far as the ton was concerned. A lady with no title, lands or prospects, she was considered even at the age of three and twenty, to be permanently on the shelf.

Another sharp clap of thunder and bright lightning illuminated her cold room. This house was old, drafty and in desperate need of repair. Her uncle forbade her in his study, but she knew he was in debt from the gaming hells he frequented. As months passed by slowly, she found less and less money was available to pay for the simple things. The surrounding farms were not as prosperous, he said grimly. The rivers overflowed their beds this season from the heavy rains that never seemed to give much time to the sun. One by one, servants departed, leaving Sansa more duties as if she were a mere housekeeper than the lady of the house.

The prior day had been long and hard. Once again, her uncle Edmure was passed out from heavy drinking after trudging home from a local pub. He had bet his best horse and lost. Sansa was furious at the man for that gentle horse was the only thing she cared for in this dreary place. At the young age of twenty, she had more sense and financial mind than that of a man almost twice her years. Sansa was tempted to walk out the door and never return only to realize, just as she had during her time at the Eyrie, there was nowhere to go. She would starve, work hard labor or worse, end up in a pub or brothel to put food in her mouth and a dry place to sleep.

No one in the southern counties would take in a traitor to the king no matter how horrible a ruler he proved to be. There were no loyalties to her father here and with the growing discontent with the Tully family, Sansa found little sympathy as the daughter of the earl's late sister.

Sansa retreated to her room as she did every night to cry herself to sleep. Only this night, the storm gave her no peace. Local men of the gentry dined with them earlier in the evening, and Sansa knew she would find her uncle drunk and broke again from playing five card loo. If this continued, they would be destitute. Sooner or later, Edmure's debts would be called in, and the last of the proud Tully family would be penniless.

Sansa's father had always reprimanded smaller lords in the north for gambling away their inheritances. Her parents were cautious in the suitors calling on their eldest daughter not wanting her to fall to a frivolous husband. Her only uncle had practically bankrupted his family fortune in a few short years.

Another thunderous roar echoed through her room when the door to her chambers opened, and soft candlelight neared her bed.

"My lady, you must wake," the kindly voice spoke in the darkness. "My lord has asked me to fetch you downstairs."

Sansa wanted to smother herself with the pillow.

_Dear God, what has he done now?_

She swung her legs out of the warm but scratchy linens of her bed. Long gone was the finery she had been accustomed to for so many years. The rug was tattered and old and did not keep the cold from her feet. Slipping on her dressing gown and a pair of worn satin slippers, Sansa followed the older woman out the door.

Pulling out her father's gold watch, the only thing she had left from him, the time told her it was just past midnight.

"How long have they been at it?" she asked with bitterness.

Mrs. Cole shook her head dismally. "Since you turned in, my dear."

The thoughtful woman was the only person who addressed Sansa as a lady and treated her with respect and affection. There was a pity in Mrs. Cole's eyes whenever she looked at her young mistress and being the only one that was remotely kind to her. She had nursed her mother and always remarked at how Sansa was an exact mirror image of her at that age.

Sansa sighed when she came to the landing and could see the men playing cards down below. The manor that had been in the family for generations and felt as though it hadn't been properly maintained in just as long. Grandfather Tully, was an old-fashioned man from what her mother told her and just like her mother, Sansa didn't like this place anymore than she did.

"Ah, is that the girl, Tully?" a laughing voice rose from the table below.

The other man turned his head gazing up at Sansa, and fear began to well up inside her.

"My dear…" her uncle Edmure drawled drunkenly. "Come down here if you please."

Sansa's feet rooted to the spot even as Mrs. Cole began to descend the stairs with the candle.

"It's late, my Lord Uncle," she began formally. "I am not dressed properly to meet your guests."

"Oh, she is quite the proper lady, isn't she?" one of the men snickered, and it made her shiver.

"Come here. I will not ask again," Edmure commanded.

Sansa slowly came down the stairs and felt the men's eyes on her the entire time. It was clear all the men had been deep in their cups but for her uncle to demand she greet strangers in nothing more than a dressing gown was disturbing.

"She is lovely; I must say," the older man sneered as he looked her up and down as if she were a prize racing horse. "Is she intact?"

Edmure spluttered with indignity adding to Sansa's horror. "Of course, she is! A well-bred lady of my dearly departed sister…"

"A traitor's daughter is no lady, my lord," the stout man goaded. "But even a pretty one is worth something."

Sansa's hands trembled and grasped the chair near the table to steady herself and held her chin high. She was used to insults and leers by men, but something seemed amiss at the way these men were talking.

"What is the meaning of all this, uncle?" she demanded quietly.

"Oh ho! Quite the high-minded little duchess, isn't she? We'll have to break her of that," the elderly man frowned. "Speak to me like that, girl, and you'll be begging on the streets, or I'll sell you to a brothel. They know how to treat a lady in _Cheapside_."

The threat chilled her to the bone. Sansa was about to demand her uncle to throw the men out for their disgusting behavior when a thought entered her mind. Edmure Tully was the earl in this county, and yet these men acted as if they owned him. Suddenly, she couldn't breathe.

_Dear God, what has he done now?_

That's what she had wondered in her bed only minutes before, and now she was sick at the dreadful answer.

Hoping against all hope, she pleaded with the drunken man sitting at the table with a look a shame about him. "My lord, shall I have… your friends escorted out? You need your rest. You're not well…"

The two men laughed heartily at her growing terror, and she unconsciously pulled her dressing gown tighter around her body.

"Oh, he's not well at all, girl," the stout man chortled as he came face to face with her.

His breath was rancid and smelt as if he had not bathed in weeks.

"Shall I tell her, or are you too drunk and cowardly, Tully?" he taunted. Not waiting for her uncle's reply, he added with a grin, "He's lost it all, dear girl. Bet everything, he did…"

His dirty finger drew a line up her arm making Sansa's stomach turn.

"You included," the elderly man smirked.

The stout man's eyes glazed a bit and stared at her in a way that made her feel naked. He grabbed her upper arm, forcing out a scream.

"Uncle!" she pleaded.

Edmure didn't even have the decency to look at her and Sansa's fears were confirmed. _Damn him!_ He bet his family's long-held lands and her to men that were no better than pigs. She pulled out of the man's grasp and moved to stand behind Mrs. Cole.

The taller, older man moved swiftly for his age, and the housekeeper pushed the young girl further behind her plump frame.

"Now gentlemen, you'll be leavin' this young lass alone," she warned with the candle trembling in her hand.

"And you'll stay out of our business old woman if you know what is good for you," he snarled. "That girl and this house belong to me now. If you wish to keep your position, I suggest you move aside. Otherwise, you'll be out in the rain tonight."

To Sansa's and the men's surprise, Mrs. Cole didn't move an inch. "I will not, sir. I have raised two generations of this family's ladies, and I refuse to let you have one hand on this one."

Abruptly, the opening and closing of a door had a footman rushing into the room. The storm raged outside as it beat against the old stained glass windows. The man whispered in her uncle's ear. Before another word could be spoken, a man dressed in a black cloak entered the room unannounced removing his hat. He was soaked through but acted as if it were a mere annoyance.

"Edmure, my apologies for the late arrival. The River Road from Lannisport was nothing short of boulders covered with mud. I'm surprised my carriage wheels didn't break in this wretched weather," the man uttered removing his damp cloak holding it out to the nervous footman as the others in the room went unnoticed. "I think a warm brandy will be just the thing to take off the chill."

All too quickly, the room fell silent as the stranger finally took in his surroundings. His eyes glanced from the drunken earl to the two men and then older woman protecting the young girl. He wasn't a tall man or broad of shoulder, but he possessed a menacing appearance all the same. The dark-haired gentleman, dressed fashionably, reminded her of someone.

"I see I have missed dinner," the man smiled, yet it didn't reach his piercing eyes. Pulling out his pocket watch of gleaming gold, he took a moment to look at the time, but Sansa felt the man already knew the lateness of the hour and was using it as a distraction.

"My, the hour _is_ late," he murmured glancing up and smiling in her direction. That smile had a hint of duplicity she noted as he glided across the room toward the two women. He bowed gracefully and grinned at the brave older woman. "Mrs. Cole. It has been far too many years. I regret that most terribly. You are more beautiful than ever."

His voice was familiar, as was his devious smile. He kissed Mrs. Cole's hand as she gently swatted him. "Petyr," she shushed him playfully, "Act like the high lord you are."

The dark man's eyes flitted to Sansa hiding behind her matronly protector. She could see a dusting of grey at his temples contrasting the pitch-black colour of his hair. Fine lines on his face as he smiled gave Sansa the assumption that he was around the same age as her uncle despite the hint of grey. There was something increasingly familiar about this gentleman, and Sansa racked her brain to place him.

"And you are, sir?" the portly man asked in slight aggression.

The stranger looked to her uncle for a proper introduction, but it never came as Edmure drunkenly lowered his head further to the table.

"Thank you, Edmure. Your courtesy and etiquette are still in top form, I see," he chided lightly. "Nothing has changed in all these years."

Mrs. Cole surprised Sansa and took a step forward, answering the insolent man.

"You are addressing His Most Honourable, Lord Baelish, _the_ _Marquess of Harrenhal_ ," she reprimanded the men harshly. Mrs. Cole spoke as if she were a proud mother making Sansa wonder what relationship she had with this gentleman. He knew her and her uncle well by his manners.

" _And_ a member of the Privy Council as well as special advisor to the king. I'm sure I could dredge up some other pointless titles to dazzle you with, but I digress," the man jested with ease however frosted with just enough ice that dared the men to test him.

The men glanced at each other with a hint of nervousness. "Beg your pardon, my lord…" the stout man offered before her uncle scoffed into his ale.

The marquess loosened his cravat and sat down next to Edmure, taking in the scene before him. The table, littered with cards from the last hand played made the congenial new lord smile.

"It seems I have missed a rather entertaining game of loo. I've never been fond of piquet; I must say, too much arithmetic and quite pedantic in nature. It looks as though you've put yourself in a spot of trouble, Ed," he teased picking up the man's cards and grimaced. "God, man, you should quit hours ago."

Lord Baelish gestured to the two men to sit down across the table as he poured himself a pint of ale.

"So, gentlemen, how much does my Lord Tully owe you this fine evening?" he began pulling out his purse.

"Riverrun," the old man replied and hesitated for a moment, "and the girl there."

The marquess raised his eyebrows in surprise and turned around in his chair to look at the women behind him.

"Oh, Edmure. If only your father were alive… how I would love to see his face right at this moment," he chuckled darkly. "I'm afraid I never carry that much gold with me when traveling, gentlemen. Highwaymen are so numerous these days."

Sansa watched nervously as the gentleman drank his ale with such patience. He had not objected to the loss of the family estate and certainly didn't seem to be bothered by the idea of a lady being sold like livestock.

Baelish set down his ale and glanced between the two men.

"Well, it appears you will need a witness of authority to transfer the estate to you legally," the mysterious gentleman presented kindly to everyone's shock.

The two men looked at each other in astonishment before the marquess added, "However, I cannot let you have the lady."

The stout man objected first.

"My lord, it was a fair wager with Lord Tully. The estate won, and then he bet the girl to win back his lands…" the man blubbered.

Lord Baelish held up his hand and didn't care to hear more.

"Be as it may. I will not give you the lady," he added with a tone of finality.

"Then we shall take this to the magistrate, my lord. You are, as you say, Marquess of Harrenhal but that does not give you authority over the Riverlands."

His lordship sighed with annoyance as Sansa took short breaths awaiting her fate. She was entirely in the hands of this man it seemed and not once did her utter a word of defense in her honour.

"In this downpour, you expect to drag me all the way to Fairmarket to settle such a trivial dispute with the local magistrate?" he huffed leaning back into his chair.

Trivial? Were her life trivial and a tiresome dispute? Sansa wanted to strike the man and felt the firm grip of Mrs. Cole upon her arm. She must have worn her emotions on her sleeve as the old woman sensed her anger.

 "I could send post to the king, giving me the direct authority, but that would require me to stay here longer than I intended. Moreover, I _intend_ to leave by morning," the man added, his tone clipped with ice. As quickly as it came, his demeanor changed and smiled in a way that filled Sansa with trepidation.

"However, to save us all some time and frustration, I do believe I have a solution to our little predicament. You are betting men…" he grinned as he picked up the discarded cards and remaining deck from the table and began to shuffle them.

"Your reputation precedes you, my lord," the elderly man protested but didn't embellish further to help Sansa understand the gentleman before her.

Was he attempting to gamble her life away just as her uncle did? She didn't know him other than by title but yet being a high lord gave him authority over that of any woman that wasn't a duchess or of a royal title.

"Then you know I gamble high stakes, sir," he smirked, dealing a strange set that Sansa wasn't familiar. "You've managed to swindle an inebriated lord’s inheritance from him, now try a sober and far wealthier one. Let's see what tricks you have left for me. What have you to lose but a northern girl and this rundown manor?"

The elderly man hesitated, but the stout fellow had greed written all over his face as he sat down. "What is it that you offer, my lord, in wager?"

"Harrenhal," the marquess replied without a care in the world, and the men looked like fish with their mouths hanging open in shock.

"You would bet your estate for that of this girl?" the man asked in disbelief.

"What does it matter? I've gambled, lost and won much larger sums than you could imagine," Baelish grinned wickedly with knowing. "This could be your very, lucky night, gentlemen. By morning, you could be the proud owners of one of the largest estates in Westeros. Now, I'm not much in the mood for five-card loo, but I've been learning this little game of vingt-et-un whilst I was in Paris. Very simple and I'm far too exhausted to pay attention to piquet…"

"We're not that familiar with this, my lord. Not exactly fair to spring a new game on novice players for such great wagers," the old man protested again trying to regain some control.

"Yes, quite right, gentlemen, quite right," the marquess agreed congenially. "I'm a fair man, of course. We'll play for an hour and give you a chance to grow accustomed to the game. As I said, it's quite simple…"

Lord Baelish explained the game with ease. It was only a matter of the cards equaling up to, but not over the sum of twenty-one. It indeed was the luck of the draw and Sansa didn't know what could be worse at the moment.

His lordship politely advised the ladies to sit or to return to bed due to the lateness of the hour, but Sansa stubbornly sat down at the end of the table to watch. She wasn't about to worry in her bedroom, waiting for the inevitable. The marquess smiled at her and shuffled the deck before dealing out to each player.

The men played for three-quarters of an hour and acted as if they were having a lovely evening at the pub. The marquess' demeanor was relaxed and cool, sharing stories that men loved to tell each other when in their cups. The two men had fallen comfortable in the wealthy gentleman’s company laughing and drinking their ale.

Sansa observed the game and kept silent. She knew well enough that making a scene would not help her cause. Uncle Edmure was long unconscious as he snored quietly at the other end of the table ignored by the other men in the room. Mrs. Cole fidgeted silently and occasionally patted the gentleman's shoulder, hoping for some assurance that he knew what he was doing.

The past hour was tedious and lengthy, watching the men play with her life. Each had won as many times as they lost to each other. As calm and amiable as the marquess was, Sansa noted something in his eyes. For every card that was turned over, his eyes caught with interest and Sansa could swear he was calculating everything laid upon the table. It wasn't just each hand and who won. He had used this past hour to watch the cards move, and something clicked in her mind. This man was playing them all along under the guise of pleasantry. He wasn't so much as letting them win but watching every move they made and where the cards lay.

Sansa never understood why ladies were never allowed to play cards or gamble with gentlemen. She could play this game just as well as them. Why couldn't she stake a claim for her welfare? Sansa hated that women seemed to be nothing more than decoration for a man, and only worth was beauty and ability to bear heirs.

Finishing his ale in one gulp, Lord Baelish checked his watch and stretched slightly in his chair.

"Very well, shall we get on with it? Two out of three takes Riverrun and the lady," he grinned, but again Sansa noticed once again it never reached his eyes. His tone implied that this was nothing more than an inconsequential thing, and the other men chuckled in reply. However, those penetrating eyes said something else when they glanced her way briefly.

She wanted so badly to speak out against this primeval act between men; however, something told her again to stay silent. After observing the men play and primarily his lordship’s subtle actions, there was a game within a game happening here. She was sure of it. Her uncle was not coming to her aid as he continued to snore peacefully. All that lay between her and desolation were cards in the hands of a stranger.

The first round played, and Sansa felt that churning of her stomach for the portly man won with his cards totaling nineteen as his companion busted and the marquess only produced seventeen. The second round lay upon the table, and his lordship easily won with twenty. As the last round was dealt, the butterflies fluttered madly as she closed her eyes. She couldn't watch. If these two horrible men won, she would kill herself. There was not a chance in hell she would leave this house with them.

"You're a cheat, my lord," the plump man shot out angrily, and Sansa opened her eyes.

The marquess turned over an ace, adding it to the queen of spades.

"The cards do not lie, gentlemen. One would think you have never gambled before. If you were not willing to risk, you never should have sat down in the first place," he reprimanded with a laugh. "I risked far more with my estate to not one but two players, I might add. You came with nothing and shall leave with nothing. I bid you goodnight."

The gentleman rose from the table without a glance to her and moved towards the dozing Mrs. Cole to rouse her.

The two men argued with each other, and Sansa slowly got up and moved towards the housekeeper as well.

"I say he is a cheat. He waited till the end and fixed the deck…" the men rumbled.

"What did you think I was doing for the past hour, gentlemen?" Baelish questioned loudly turning towards them as both women unconsciously moved behind him. "I observed every move you made. Oh, and I should have said that I'm quite good with numbers which makes this game very simple to win. You said you knew of my reputation, sir, well you should have kept that in mind instead of greed blinding you."

The round man's face was so red that Sansa thought it just might burst. He fished in his coat for a musket, aiming it at the marquess.

"Do it, and you both will hang by morning," Baelish warned with a hint of mirth in his voice. "Consequently, I should have mentioned in passing that not only am I on excellent terms with Magistrate Chadsworth but that the king made me Lord Paramount of the Trident recently… which I do believe gives me _authority over the Riverlands_."

Sansa's eyes widened as she stared at the marquess chuckling from his little ruse. He didn't have to gamble at all. He could have stopped this from the very beginning and yet chose to risk the men at the expense of her fear and helplessness. Sansa was enraged to the point of clawing this man's face off, marquess or not. Mrs. Cole held the girl back as she stepped towards the man.

"Now, get out. I don't want to see either of you here again, do you understand me?" Lord Baelish demanded coldly — all of the laughter gone from his face.

Thunder rumbled loudly from the storm, and both men stood in shock before slowly gathering their belongings.

"Brune, would you be so kind as to see these men out?" he requested tiredly.

A stocky man with a strong jaw appeared from the foyer that no one had seen the entire time. He held a musket at the ready and had the disposition of a man not to be trifled with. The marquess traveled with more than just a footman, so it seemed.

The men walked around the manservant with trepidation before scurrying through the foyer. The heavy oak door opened and closed with a thud but not before letting in a damp, cold chill through the room.

Baelish sighed as he turned to the old housekeeper. "Mrs. Cole, I am weary from travel. I assume that Edmure forgot about my letter that I would be coming to Riverrun today."

Both looked at the drunken man sleeping on the table.

"No, my lord, he had not mentioned it to me. Don't worry; I will have a warm bed ready for you," Mrs. Cole smiled and patted his cheek like a young boy. "I never thought I would see you return to this house again, Petyr. Moreover, now a high lord yourself? My how the years have changed."

"Gold can change many things, my dear," he replied tenderly as if he were speaking to his mother.

Sansa was fixed to the spot at the exchange while neither of them paid her any attention. She watched transfixed as the gentleman pulled her uncle up against his slim frame and walked him to the staircase and finally acknowledged the girl's existence.

"Would you be so kind as to help me get him to bed, my lady? You seem a strong girl by the looks of you," he asked sweetly.

She wasn't sure if she should be offended or complimented by that remark, but she walked to him none the less and took her uncles arm, draping it around her shoulders.

This man seemed to dislike her uncle but at the same time wasn't about to leave him there to sleep in the Great Hall. He had called her lady several times this evening. Sansa had not heard that from a man, a gentleman, in some time.

It took some effort to lead Edmure to his chambers. Sansa lit a candle and pulled the bedclothes over him as she had done so many times before. The marquess quietly watched her from the door as she cared for her uncle with practiced ease.

"Tell me, my lady, is this commonplace with Lord Edmure?" he asked delicately, with a touch of kindness and regret to his voice.

"Yes, my lord. It's been this way for some months now," she replied in kind blowing out the candle. She didn't know why she was discussing family matters with this man all of a sudden. She was about to ask him where and how she knew him, but when Sansa turned around, he was gone.

Sansa walked out, closing the door behind her finding the hallway and landing empty. She supposed it mattered not if she had met him before. He was leaving in the morning, he said. He kept her from being taken away and her uncle losing his estate. That's all that mattered. In the morning, the man would leave, and life would continue as it had for over a year. She couldn’t recall his face, but those eyes and that voice! She knew him somehow. Sansa thought she knew every gentleman in the ton, but there had not been a lord over Harrenhal in some time.

Glancing around, Sansa sighed at the thought of cleaning the dusty tapestries today and trudged back to her cold room. It would be daylight soon, and there was much to do. Tonight was the most excitement, if one could call it that, she had in a long time. Slipping into the icy linens, Sansa curled into a ball to stay warm. It would be another cold winter in this place and worse with the dwindling finances. Sansa sniffed slightly. She wished that someone could take her away from all of this. She would even be willing to go back to her aunt if the jealous woman would take her.

With a flash of a brief recollection, Sansa lay in shock. Yes, that's how she knew him. He wasn't a marquess then if memory served her correctly. Her aunt was furious that night at Robert's birthday masque, and Sansa tried to explain that she had done nothing to entice the man. The duchess wouldn't hear of it, and days later she was sent to live in Riverrun. Sansa had practically forgotten what little she remembered of his face from the ornate mask he wore. It was his manner, his voice that sparked some recognition. Lord Baelish was not of old family influence and inheritance like that of the rest of the ton. There had been as many whispers and gossip about him that night as there were about the traitorous niece that was the ward of the duchess.

Sansa fumed once more. He was the reason her aunt sent her here to this gloomy place. He could have turned the men out the moment he arrived but chose to play games with them, and her, on some morbid principle that he could. It was a good thing Mrs. Cole held her back, for Sansa knew she would have flogged the man senseless. It would be best if he left as quickly as possible in a few hours, she grumbled to herself for she might forget her upbringing and spit in his breakfast for good measure. He was a marquess now was he? Clearly, gold _could_ change many things.

All too soon, morning came, and Sansa had not slept at all. Her furious mind gave her no rest, and when she washed her face and looked in the mirror, the dark circles under her eyes were more than evident to her condition. Sansa dressed in one of her older frocks that had seen better days. Today, there was much cleaning to help Mrs. Cole with and wearing her last decent afternoon dress to impress a man she detested was pointless. If the marquess expected her to dress well in his company, he was sorely mistaken. She was no longer a lady of title or any social status anymore. Why should she pretend to be?

Sansa pulled her hair back and glanced in the mirror once again. Her mother wouldn't even recognize her now. Her face was pale and slightly gaunt. She was not eating as well as her stay in the Vale, nor had she bothered with her hair in months. It was simpler to braid and pin it up. There were no gentlemen to impress here. The Vale taught her one thing; Sansa was doomed to spinsterhood. She looked more like the common girls from the local village than a lady of breeding.

She donned a light shawl and made her way down the stairs where the two lords were breaking their fast. The marquess immediately rose from the table while her uncle remained seated. Sansa was slightly flattered at the notion but pushed it down. This damned man was the reason why she was here in the first place.

Lord Baelish came around, pulling her chair out as she sat with a short 'thank you.' Returning to his seat, Sansa glanced at him briefly. He was again, well dressed in dark grey that seemed to match the colour of his eyes. In the sunlight, his greying temples were more pronounced in contrast to his thick black hair. The very air about him was that of refinement, a trait her uncle and the men in this place simply did not possess.

Mrs. Cole placed a soft boiled egg before her with toasted bread and butter. Sansa picked an apple from small variety of fruits and listened as the men resumed their conversation. Her uncle finally mustered an awkward form of gratitude at the reclaiming of his estate lost the night before. Lord Baelish drank his tea and waved it off as if it were insignificant.

The air in the room was thick for it was clear the two men disliked each other immensely.

"Why have you come here, Petyr? Is it merely to gloat or do you have a more sinister purpose?" Edmure asked with contempt answering Sansa's question on why the new marquess was here.

"I wanted to come and see my childhood home…" Baelish began.

"This was _never_ your home," Edmure spat bitterly.

"…and as Lord Paramount, of course, it is of financial interest to know how the lands are being managed. As far as I can tell, there is a severe lack of leadership. The locals have run amuck, and the _Earl of Riverrun_ is in debt to his ears and unable to pay the most trivial of needs."

Lord Baelish caught Sansa's eye and smiled as she turned away blushing. Had this man gone through her uncle's ledgers after what she had said last night?

Uncle Edmure tried to object, but the marquess spoke over him.

"I have the necessary papers here. Magistrate Chadsworth will sign over the deeds to me on my way to Harrenhal," he said, patting the satchel next to him.

"No! You are not taking my family's lands, Petyr!" Edmure exclaimed standing up abruptly. "You think your money can buy you everything… you were nothing, came from nothing! We should have let you die that day."

Lord Baelish sat calmly with a slight look of annoyance at the man insulting him, and Sansa could only watch in fascination.

"The times are changing, old man," he grinned. "This worn and tired aristocracy is dying. The game is an old one but one your lot has forgotten how to play. The one with the most gold wins, my friend. While your kind is indolent in the collection of your inheritance generation after generation, my kind is going to take it all from you."

Edmure was fuming, and the tips of his ears were bright red as he threw his plate across the room shattering the china into a million pieces.

"As I said last night, but you were too drunk to hear… How I would love to see your father's face right now. Knowing that I, who came from nothing, am now lord higher than his only son and own his generation's old family estates," Baelish chuckled darkly.

Sansa finally spoke up in astonishment.

"But, my lord, you're not giving back Riverrun to my uncle? I thought that was your honorable intention…" she muttered.

The marquess smiled, and his eyes gleamed in amusement.

"I intend to take claim that I have honorably and _rightfully_ won. Your uncle lost the family estate of his own accord. I gambled my holdings and claimed his lawfully. If Lord Tully had gambled me last night, would you begrudge me my winnings my lady?" he mused.

Sansa started to panic hearing those words. He was going to throw them out. She was now penniless and homeless, as was her uncle.

"Now, I'm not a vile man, my dear. Edmure can continue to stay in his ancestral home, but I will manage the profitability of the land from now on, and he will receive a modest allowance until it's proven he will not gamble it away," he continued nonchalantly.

"Now see here, Petyr…" Edmure roared.

Sansa closed her eyes in fear.

"And what of me, my lord? Am I to be thrown in the village streets?" she whispered.

Lord Baelish observed her with quiet admiration, but his next words sent shockwaves down her spine.

"Of course not, my lady. You will pack what little I assume you possess this very morning. You are leaving with me to Harrenhal."

 

 

* * *

 

   

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

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“Over my dead body!” the earl roared and strode across the room to his sword and a musket resting on a small table near the staircase.

Lord Baelish remained seated with a look of boredom on his face; however, the ice in his voice was unmistakable.

“ _That_ … can be arranged,” he warned and his manservant, Brune, entered the room with his hand already on his weapon.

Edmure stopped dead in his tracks as Sansa sat stunned at Baelish’s previous declaration as to her future. Why was he was removing her from her family’s care? There was no reason for it.

“She doesn’t belong to you, Petyr. She is my family and my responsibility,” her uncle protested as he held onto his musket that Sansa knew full well wasn’t loaded.

Lord Baelish rose slowly, his eyes never leaving Edmure. Sansa watched as he drifted around the table, standing next to her. All she could do was stare at her plate when his hand rested on the back of her chair.

“Do you honestly believe after last night that I would leave Cat’s daughter in your care?” Baelish spoke with quiet fury. “You nearly sold her into God knows what life with those men to save your wealth and heritage. Look at her; she is practically a housemaid here.”

The man had not lied, but she was furious at the marquess all the same. He bet her livelihood as well last night as if it were the most trivial of games.

“And how are you any different, my lord?” she muttered indignantly, eyes cast down. “My well-being seems only a game to you that is as easily tossed around as cards on a table.”

Lord Baelish leaned against the table, staring at her, but she couldn’t meet his gaze.

“Had I not arrived when I did, you would have been well on your way to a brothel, I would gather, my lady,” he said. “I wagered an estate that is worth one-hundred times Riverrun to…”

Sansa glared at the arrogant man. “Forgive me if I am not thrilled with being a bargaining chip between men. You didn’t have to wager a thing. You are Lord Paramount, as you say and could have called their winnings invalid. Gambling your estate was not for my protection but your vanity. What am I worth, a traitor’s daughter? Ten guineas? Less? I doubt you’ll get your money’s worth, my lord. You might as well leave me here.”

She awaited a harsh reprimand for speaking so rudely to high lord, but the man only smiled at her. A long index finger tilted her chin up to look him in the eyes.

“Well said, my lady,” he smirked. “Do give yourself credit. You are worth most decidedly more than ten guineas.” His eyes flared a bit, and Sansa felt he was trying to rouse her anger more than a genuine insult. “If you were a mere shilling, I would still remove you from this place.”

“Shall I be more plain, my lord? I do not wish to be bought by you. I’d rather be a scullery maid than go with you,” she held her chin high, letting his finger drop away.

“You have your answer, Petyr,” Edmure’s voice rang behind her.

The marquess glanced at her uncle and then back to the proud girl sitting before him.

“All due respect my lady,” he began with ease. “It matters not. You hardly have anything to say about it. If I were to give your uncle everything back, how long until you find yourself in even worse circumstances. No. You shall leave with me today. Mrs. Cole,” he turned to the elderly woman resting by the sideboard, “Make sure Lady Sansa is packed and ready to leave within the hour.”

Edmure protested hotly once again, and the husky manservant moved across the room quickly divesting her uncle of his weapons. “Petyr, you cannot. Think of her reputation! It is completely improper for a young lady of her age to live with a rake such as you.”

Baelish chuckled darkly, “After gambling her away, you dare chastise me in her care? Edmure, I think we can all agree that her reputation is long shattered due to her father’s rebellion. Neither you or Lysa came to Cat’s aid, and they executed the entire family. Where was your family honor then? Your old fashioned nobility makes you no better than I. She will become the proper lady she is in my household, unlike the…” his eyes returned to Sansa with a grin, “… _scullery maid_ , you’ve managed to make her in yours.”

Sansa waited with anxiously for her uncle to make some defense. Instead, he marched into his study and slammed the heavy oak door. Looking to Mrs. Cole for any form of help, the kindly old woman shook her head sadly.

“Mrs. Cole, I would be honored if you would come to Harrenhal and take charge of the household. I know of no one better to manage such a large house, moreover, play chaperone to Lady Stark. It would be well if she had a familiar face while staying in my home,” Lord Baelish offered with such grace and kindness that Sansa felt a rush of relief that she would have one friend with her.

Mrs. Cole glanced at the door the earl slammed moments before and smiled with regret.

“Petyr,” she called him informally, “I think my place is to watch over Edmure. He will be quite alone and in need now.”

Sansa’s eyes widened in horror. Mrs. Cole defended her from the two men last night, and yet she was letting this man, that Sansa was barely acquainted with, take her away.

He kissed the top of the old woman’s head tenderly and added, “If you change your mind, all you need do is write to me, and I will send a carriage for you. In the meantime…” Lord Baelish retrieved a purse heavy with gold. “Keep this safe. I trust you to spend it as necessary. Anything you require, inform me, and you shall have it.”

Mrs. Cole patted his hand and smiled sweetly as Sansa watched the exchange in wonder. Perhaps the man couldn’t be utterly despicable if he treated this woman, whom he had not seen in years, with such kindness and generosity. The fact lay in her lap that she was leaving with a man she only knew by introduction and reputation.

Lord Baelish was known for his scandalous behavior within the ton. Sansa knew of him from that fateful night of the ball at The Eyrie. He was not of noble birth but rose quickly through the ranks and rumored to be quite wealthy. His new titles and wealth did not seem to aid him in securing a wife. Either no lady of breeding would have him, or he did not wish to be married. The man was nothing short of an enigma and endless gossip among the gentry.

Uncle Edmure had called him a rake moments before, and it seemed to fit his personality so far. He was as courteous as any other lord, but elements about him told her he did not care much for strict social etiquette. All Sansa could guess it was that he was self-made, wealthy, and quite used to things done his way.

Sansa felt as though she had no choice at all in the matter, just as Lord Baelish said. Whether by gambling or as high lord of the region, she was under his governorship. When Mrs. Cole roused Sansa from her troubled thoughts, the marquess had left the room.

“Come, my dear,” the old woman tugged the young girl’ arm, “We must pack your things in haste. I don’t believe his lordship will wish to wait too long. I think we can fit everything in the one trunk and you’ll need your trousseau…”

Sansa laughed bitterly at that. “No need. I’ll never marry. I’ll most likely end up keeping the household for him until he snares a wife and ships me off to be someone’s governess,” Sansa grumbled.

“Perhaps, he will take you as his ward. He cared very much for your mother years ago. It would make sense,” Mrs. Cole mused to herself as Sansa followed her upstairs. “You will be in a wealthy house again, where you belong, a lady of your upbringing. If the Fates are kind, you could be a marchioness again…”

Sansa hissed in reply, “Do not say such things. I would never marry a man such as that. Uncle said he’s a rascal and I heard stories from The Eyrie. Not to mention, _he’s old_ … He must be close to forty…”

They entered Sansa’s bedchamber and began pulling her few belongings from the wardrobe.

“Not quite, m’dear. He’s slightly younger than your uncle,” Mrs. Cole continued, “If there’s any of the sweet boy left that I knew; I gather he’s not as terrible as the gossip from the ton makes him be. It tends to be full of lies more than truth, as you very well know. Life changes and hardens people, poppet. However, just occasionally, there is a tenderness left.”

“Why are you defending him? You are not worried that he may… a man such as that doesn’t exactly have respect for a lady in his keeping. You believe I will be safe with him?” Sansa asked in fear.

“My lady, he did save you from those two men. I don’t know what I would have done to protect you had his lordship not arrived when he did,” the woman explained. “Am I positive that no harm will ever befall you? No, my dear. Your father is not here to protect you and Edmure can barely care for himself let alone a beautiful young woman in these parts. Letting the lands go, as Petyr said, has created many greedy and distasteful men of late. They would take advantage of a lovely girl such as you. In Petyr’s care, you will be better off under his protection. There’s a good man in there, I believe,” she added quietly.

Sansa crammed some of her books and small items she was able to take from Winterfell.

“And if there isn’t?” she inquired harshly wanting to tell Mrs. Cole that Lord Baelish was the reason why her aunt cast her out of her home.

The housekeeper looked at Sansa with sadness. “Then you are a resourceful and intelligent girl. You find your way back here, and we’ll sort it out.”

The women continued packing, and Mrs. Cole lamented, “I cannot fathom that he would ever harm you, child. He loved your mother to the point of romantic idiocy. Dueled for her, he did. Younger than you are now. Just a sweet, naïve boy. A little mischevious, yes,” she smiled to herself and then sighed.  “Alas, he’s a man grown now, and I’ve naught known him since he was cast out by your grandfather at the age of seven and ten. He’s come a long way from that young boy of such low birth. His father was only a knight and sent him here to foster and now… a marquess. How shocked Lord Hoster would be.”

Sansa closed the trunk, locking it as Mrs. Cole found her trousseau in the corner covered in dust.

“Titles can be bought and sold these days,” Sansa grumbled.

“Bought, sold, given and taken away,” Mrs. Cole smiled. “It’s the way it has always been, my lady, even with the kings of old.”

The game is an old one but one your lot has forgotten how to play — the one with the most gold wins, my friend.

The times were changing, indeed. Lord Baelish was right, and it did not matter. He was now high lord over the region, and she was beholden to him whether she liked it or not. Her uncle and Mrs. Cole were handing her over to him in accordance with authority.

Sansa wondered about Harrenhal. Her father and mother told wondrous stories about the grand estate, second only to the royal palace in Kings Landing and far more impressive than Winterfell in size. Her mother described Harrenhal's lavish balls and parties when she was a young lady in her first season. However, years ago, there was a great fire, and many died, including the late Grand Duke of the Stormlands, his wife and only daughter. Many rumored Harrenhal to be haunted and even cursed over the generations as far as Sansa understood that the estate was desolate with no lord willing to take it.

Perhaps, that is why the king gave it to Lord Baelish, a new lord by society standards. Even though Harrenhal was an estate with vast territory customarily reserved for a dukedom or even royalty, Lord Baelish must have done something to garner such a gift from the king, or it was more an empty gesture only because no other lord would take it. The cost of repairing and maintaining such an estate would require the wealth of royalty, not to mention the talk within the ton of a curse. For all Sansa knew, she was traveling to a house that was in even worse conditions than the one she currently resided.

Sansa changed into her last decent afternoon dress and wool pelisse. Regardless of whether the house was run down or not, she could not walk into a place such as Harrenhal wearing a tattered dress and shawl with the marquess himself. Mrs. Cole tried to fix Sansa’s hair the best she could in such a limited time. Sansa glanced in the faded mirror one last time and sighed, fastening an old bonnet. Once again, she was sent off to a new and uncertain home with a man she barely knew.

Two footmen knocked on her door, asking to retrieve her belongings. Sansa followed the men down the stairs where the Lord Baelish waited patiently.  Her uncle was nowhere to be found, and Sansa fumed at how easily the last family she had could disregard her so.

She embraced Mrs. Cole and begged her quietly to come and not leave her alone with the marquess, but the old woman shook her head with regret telling Sansa this was for the best. How did she know for certain? She remembered a boy of seven and ten, not the man standing here today. For all this woman knew, Sansa would be a prisoner, and God knows what else alone with this man.

Sansa looked again towards her uncle’s study, praying he wouldn’t allow this, but the door remained closed. Lord Baelish kissed Mrs. Cole on the cheek and offered his goodbye. Before the man could take her elbow, Sansa marched angrily outside to the carriage that awaited her.

A team of four beautiful black horses led a large and luxurious carriage. The footman opened the door when Lord Baelish caught up to her and offered his hand. Sansa glanced at it and refused to touch him climbing into the carriage on her own with little effort. Her dress was a bit too small for her frame now as it was a couple of years old and a tad short for her legs. Sansa had grown almost two inches. She had tried in vain to alter the hem, but there was no material left to lengthen the skirt. After living at Riverrun, she didn’t care anymore as there were no visitors to judge her out of fashion and ill-fitting clothes.

Baelish climbed in with an effortless grace about him. He sat across from her appropriately and tapped his cane on back, signaling the driver to move on. The rain had died in the early morning, but the scent of its freshness lingered. Sansa watched as the home she knew for over year disappeared in the distance, and now all that was left was the mysterious man across from her and an unknown future.

The River Road ran parallel to the Red Fork River and the rolling hills along the south that hid Harrenhal. The terrain was impossible for a carriage this time of year and dangerous yet to travel a lonely road for fear of highwaymen. The River Road and Kings Road were notorious enough with stories of many robberies, but there was little choice to make.

Hours rolled by, and Sansa felt herself drifting asleep occasionally until the wheels hit rocky areas jostling the carriage. Thankfully, there was an inn nearby where they would most likely stop and rest the horses. Another storm was brewing from the west, and Sansa wondered if it would force them to stay the night before making towards Lord Harroway’s Town and the turn to Harrenhal. Riding across the countryside would save them a day’s travel, but it would be even worse if they were caught in another storm in the middle of nowhere.

Since leaving Riverrun, the marquess had not uttered one word to her, and Sansa wasn’t sure if she was affronted or relieved. This man was probably thinking he made a colossal mistake winning that damned game of cards. Occasionally, she would catch Lord Baelish's eye only to quickly look out the window fearing he would notice her staring at him. He seemed to be as uncomfortable as she was even in the spacious carriage. Boredom, lack of sleep had them both closing their eyes and virtually ignoring the other.

Thankfully, they came upon the small village, and Sansa desperately needed to stretch her legs and use the privy.  The ground was deep mud in front of the village's only inn. Lord Baelish descended and draped his expensive cloak in the crook of his arm as his boots were ankle deep in sodden earth before offering Sansa his gloved hand. This time she had no choice but to take it, or she would sink and fall into the muddy ground. She stood on the last step, debating where to put her feet when the man decided for her, lifting her into his arms with ease carrying her to the wooden porch of the inn. Walking in the door, Sansa took a moment to calm her nerves. It was a gentlemanly act nevertheless awkward that such a man would be so familiar with her without asking permission.

It was late afternoon, and the inn was bustling with patrons ready to wait out the torrent weather. Lord Baelish took her arm and led Sansa inside. Many men were already drunk and shouting for more ale as they flirted openly with the tavern wenches. A few men eyed her salaciously that did not go unnoticed by the marquess.

“Ah! My lord, good to see you again. Let me find you a more quiet table. I have mutton roasting for my betters. This lot will eat any ole’ stew.  I have a good ale… and Dornish wine for the lady…” the portly innkeeper boasted leading them to a cleaner corner as the man, Brune, followed with a watchful eye.

Baelish led her to sit as he followed suit.

“Thank you, Bennings. The lady and I are most famished. I say, the storm looks to be upon on us, and I fear to take my lady through it to Harrenhal. Have you lodgings?” the lord asked politely.

“We are full, but I’ll kick one these drunks out for you, my lord. The best room, I’ll give ye,” Bennings smiled, showing his missing teeth.

“You’ll find me very grateful,” Baelish replied, tossing the innkeeper a few coins. Sansa was about to object and demand another room, but the marquess gripped her arm tightly, informing her to stay quiet.

“Thanking ye, yer lordship. I’ll have the room ready for you and your lady,” the man grinned wildly tucking the coins in his pocket greedily as he moved through the dense crowd. Brune sat across from them and watched the roaring brood.

Sansa yanked her arm from Baelish’s grasp and spoke lowly, “Why did you not procure another room? _I’ll not share a bed with you_.”

Baelish glared at her and lowered his voice.

“You’re clever enough to stay quiet considering our surroundings, so continue to use that brain of yours, sweetling,” he spat quietly.

 _Sweetling?_ How dare he use any form of endearment towards her. Sansa was about to retort when he cut her off.

“Firstly, kicking one drunken man from his room is enough. Oust two, and we bring too much attention to ourselves. I had hoped to make it to Lord Holloway’s Town where I have men on my payroll for added security. Here, we do not have that luxury,” he told her firmly.

“You are Lord Paramount…” she began.

“With only a footman, driver and Brune there. Not nearly enough protection, for this area is thick with thieves. Now, do as I say and stay silent,” he barked before a heavyset woman brought them food and drink.

The woman smiled seductively, and Sansa cringed. Dear God, this could have been her if those men took her last night. The woman left, and Sansa picked at her food.

“Besides, there is not a chance in hell I’m putting you in a room by yourself with unsavory men knowing you are alone. My decision is final,” he uttered into his ale. Spotting her scowling face, Baelish added, “I rarely sleep, my dear. The bed is yours.”

The admission didn’t make her feel any better. The idea of sharing a room, possibly a bed, with a strange man was unthinkable. Knowing the kind of man Lord Baelish was rumored to be, made it all the more impossible to consider. Sansa may not have a grand title anymore, but she was still brought up a proper lady, and this was something her father would have never allowed to happen. She could see her mother’s disapproving glare even now as Sansa gazed into the hearth.

If only she could get back to the north, she knew the people there were loyal and loved her father. Sansa felt she would find those kind to her circumstances. She would never again go home to her beloved Winterfell, but at least she could be with those like her. Sansa would not have to pretend to appease southern lords and ladies. Maybe in the north she could find some solace and happiness.

Other than comfort and fine foods, the Vale was a cold prison as the duchess, or wardeness as Sansa likened her, kept her under constant harsh control. Sansa was almost relieved when her aunt sent her to live in Riverrun, her mother’s childhood home. Surely Uncle Edmure could not be any worse. How wrong she was.

“You’re not hungry, my dear?” his soft voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

Sansa didn’t care for mutton, but it would a long time before eating in the morning. She forced it down, reluctantly with the tannic wine to fill her stomach.

A brawl between two men erupted, and swiftly Lord Baelish ushered her up the stairs to the rooms above. One of the tavern wenches showed her into a small room as the marquess followed.

“There is fresh water in the basin, clean linens and a chamber pot, m’lord. If you’ll be needin’ anything else, ask for me… Ellie, m’lord,” she smiled with a wink and Sansa refrained from rolling her eyes. Baelish gave the brunette a coin and closed the door.

The room was tight quarters that hardly had enough space for a small table, chair, and bed that would barely fit two unless they were very familiar.

“I say, there’s naught room for your trunk, my lady,” Baelish said, mirroring her observations. “Shall I retrieve anything you might need?”

The man laid his cloak, coat, and purse on the bed and stood in only his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. Sansa removed her bonnet and set it next to the basin in thought as she tried not to look at his purse. If she could get to a horse... Sansa played with the notion of cutting across the shallow river and up the countryside to the northern route of the Kings Road. If she were lucky, the men would think she either headed back to Riverrun or east to Lord Holloway’s Town. Her father and brothers were adamant about teaching the girls to ride well from a young age. With Baelish’s full purse, she could make it past Moat Cailin to her kind.

“No, I haven’t much that is presentable. I wish to clean up if I could have some privacy,” she said, hoping the marquess would play along.

“Of course, my dear,” he replied with a smirk and picked up the purse to her dismay. “I think I can entertain myself for a spell. It should be easy pickings downstairs. Brune will be nearby, so you need not worry about unwelcome visitors.”

He didn’t pick up his coat or cloak, for it was quite warm in the tavern. Lord Baelish gave her one last look and turned around, exiting the room with the soft click of the door. Sansa released a sigh she had been holding in and sat down wearily. Gazing at the bed, she thought it would be much easier to lie down and sleep for this silly idea growing in her mind was certain to be fruitless.

As a quarter of an hour passed, the stubborn and willful Stark trait would not let her rest. She didn’t belong in Harrenhal with his man. She did not want to go with him anywhere or be subservient to him in any way. A reckless plan hatched in her mind as she cracked open the door to see that Lord Baelish gave his word. Indeed, the man, Brune kept watch at the top of the landing. She could tell him that she wanted to use the privy, but somehow Sansa knew this man would see right through it and tell her to use the chamber pot in her room.

Sifting through the marquess' coat, she found his pockets empty. When feeling through his cloak, however, she noticed a hard lump. A secret pocket held a small purse containing gold. Quickly counting the coins, Sansa realized it was enough to get her to Moat Cailin possibly. The Lord Baelish didn’t keep all his eggs in one basket, so it seemed.

The noise was blustering as the men gambled and drank from below. Sansa bet that the marquess was most likely doing well amongst these men. Somehow, she felt that it wasn’t the money he enjoyed winning; it was the game itself. He loved to play, deceive and fool men to empty purses.

Opening the door wider, Brune turned at the sound and eyed her with a questioning.

“I would like to speak with Lord Baelish, if you please,” she asked meekly casting her blue eyes to the floor. 

The man looked at her suspiciously, but Sansa pressed on with the haughty air she used earlier in the evening. “Will you fetch your master to me, please? I will not go down there to seek him.”

The stocky man huffed in annoyance and moved down the stairs into the roar of the drunken rabble. Sansa immediately moved to the end of the murky and damp corridor where she could see a small stairwell leading most likely to the kitchens below.

Pulling her cloak tight and lifting her skirts, she flew down the stairs passing a barmaid and tall man rutting like animals against the wall. Sansa stepped outside, and her worn boots sunk into the mud. She needed to move in haste for her ruse would surely be found out soon.

Once in the stable, she almost tripped over a boy dozing off in a bed of straw. The stable was empty save her, the boy and several horses, including the team belonging to his lordship.

Only a dusty grey horse was saddled seemingly waiting for his master to leave, and Sansa smiled at her good fortune. She might get across the river before they knew she was gone. With effort and hiking her skirts under her arms, Sansa managed to swing her leg over the animal, mounting to ride like a man. This was not a fox hunt where decorum was scrutinized heavily as any ball. She was running away as fast as she could.

The boy woke to the clamor of the horse and its new master. Sansa quickly tossed a gold coin to the boy and brought her gloved finger to her lips.

“Even the Devil, himself, couldn’t make me talk for a gold coin, my lady,” the boy whispered in excitement for the prize of his silence.

Without wasting another word, Sansa rode out of the stable and got her bearings in the hazy moonlight. The wind was picking up, and she feared another storm was closing in, but now she had no choice. This was her only chance and she had to take it. Searching the star lit sky, Sansa found The Little Bear, as her father called it… and there it was! The north star pointed the way home.

With a jab of her heels, the horse gave a loud whinny and started to gallop towards the river. Sansa heard her name shouted from the inn followed by several curses from the man that had won her the night before and she knew she had been found out. With hope and luck, time would be on her side. By the time horses were saddled, she could put some distance between them in the dense countryside.

The Red Fork was the shallow river compared to her two sisters and was the only river that was passable without a ferry or bridge. The three rivers converged at Lord Holloway’s Town and then into the sea. Sansa needed to lose them and head northeast. The men would assume that she would go northwest to Fairmarket and catch the ferry there.

She was betting that they would think she was a simple girl but her father taught her and sister to ride and how to take care of themselves in the woods if they ever became lost. Living in the north was a far cry from the southern aristocratic ladies whose biggest worry was dirtying their satin shoes and being out of fashion.

Just as Sansa hoped, the river bed was shallow here, and her horse made its way without a lick of trouble. The distant inn's lights gave her hope as she galloped towards the east, praying the men headed westward to Fairmarket instead.

The wind grew colder as it whipped her hair from its braids around her head, making her wish that she grabbed her bonnet from her room. Sansa glanced back, and she made some headway from the river as she headed towards dense trees. Perhaps there, she could slow down and let the horse breathe. When that storm caught up, it would be better to find a little shelter under those trees. With any luck, she could follow the Blue Fork to Lord Holloway’s Town and take the northbound Kings Road.

Within the cover of trees, Sansa slowed her horse, letting him take an easy trot into the woods. Occasionally, she turned the horse around checking behind her, but there was nothing, not a sound except the wind through the trees and an owl singing its nightly tune.

Swiftly, something perked the horse’s ears and startled him. Ignoring his mistress’s guidance, the spooked animal reared up, and Sansa felt a blow to her side that bashed her clean off the panicked horse. She hit the wet forest floor with a thud knocking the air from her already corset-constricted lungs.

Desperately trying to breathe, Sansa felt two strong hands pull her muddied form upright until the face before her was one belonging to one of the ugliest men she had ever seen in her life. His skin, heavily scarred, matched the dirty and the foul stench of his breath, making her wince in disgust.

“Well, well, well…” the man chuckled. “What’s this we have here?”

The man raked his eyes over her as she tried desperately to pull away. Another male voice rang from the darkness and Sansa froze fearfully.

“Whatcha got there, Ranchold?” she heard a man ask from the shrubs.

“I caught me a lass,” he laughed, and his breath was even more rancid than before.

“A lass? Out here? Cor! Is she pretty?” another voice shot out from behind.

The man that held her pushed her into the moonlight as the others made themselves known in the small clearing.

“She’s covered in mud, but still prettier than any wench I have ever laid eyes on!” he roared in laughter. “Come on, girl, let’s have a look at you.”

He tore her cloak away, and Sansa shivered from the cold and feared to see the four men gazing hungrily at her.

“Lost are ye, lass?” a tall but thin man asked sarcastically. “Good, that we found ye. A pretty, young thing is bound to run into trouble in these parts. There are no gentlemen in these woods.”

All the men laughed darkly as they closed in on her.

“Good sirs, I want no trouble. Please let me go,” she pleaded miserably. “I was separated from my lord husband; he will pay handsomely if you return me safely.” The lie escaped her lips effortlessly.

“Lord husband, eh?” the foul breathed man chuckled. “What dandy lord would let his pretty little lady get so lost in a place like this… in the middle of the night no less?”

Sansa shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. “They’ll be searching for me…”

The man was so close that his hand clasped her slender throat, and her blue eyes grew wide.

“Please, I have gold. Just let me go, and it’s yours,” Sansa shook desperately.

“Gold? Give it to me, girl, and I will let you go,” he smiled with crooked and missing teeth.

Sansa fished inside her skirts and pulled the small purse handing it to the man. He opened it and with surprise written on his face, counted the gold pieces inside.

“She tellin’ the truth?” one man asked.

“Aye,” he answered.

“You have twenty pieces to share. Please, you said you would let me go,” Sansa begged with tears in her eyes.

The burly man pushed her back, forcing her to fall into another man behind her.

"I said I would let you go, on my honor," he grinned. " _But they didn't_."

“What else is hidden in that dress of yours?” he said, sniffing her hair as his hands held her indecently.

“Nothing! I gave you all I have!” she cried.

“Oh, I think you have much to give us, girl,” the tall man laughed heartily and tore at her bodice, revealing her corset and chemise.

Sansa screamed at the top of her lungs and could hear her voice echo back to her. The two men tore her dress from her body as the other held her steadfast. She kicked and screamed as they pushed her down to the ground.

“This little redhead is full of fire,” the man hooted pulling at his breeches. “Never had me a proper lady before.”

He pushed up her chemise when Sansa kicked between his legs as hard as she could making him topple backward. The man howled in pain as the other climbed on top of her trying to thrust her legs apart. She wanted to kick him, but his hands were strong and kept her knees down. Drastically, she clawed at his face when he lowered his head to hers, and he screamed as her nails drew blood.

“Argh! You bitch! You’ll pay for that!” he yelled and slapped Sansa so hard across the face she saw stars. “Hold the whore down!”

Sansa screamed and screamed as tears rolled down her stinging cheek when she tried in vain once again and kicked the man on top of her. A fist connected to her left cheek, and everything went black.


	3. Chapter 3

  

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 _Cold_. It was all around Sansa, all she could feel. The warm weight that lay upon her had disappeared, and now a chill encompassed her body completely. A far-off voice, sounding like father, called her name. Sansa strained to see in the darkness as a dim star twinkled in the distance. A peace enveloped her as she felt herself drifting towards that calming voice. Finally, she was going home.

The star came closer still, and Sansa wanted to reach out to it, but her body refused to move. Father’s voice called out again, but it had changed somehow. He sounded different.

“Sweetling…”

_Sweetling?_

“Open your eyes, love,” the voice begged, and a sudden pain seared through her head.

Her fingers sunk into damp earth and everything jolted back in a flash. A voice that sounded like hers screamed as she kicked and hit the man above her. Strong gloved hands caught her wrists to halt their assault.

“Sansa!” the familiar voice called out, “It’s all right now. You’re safe. Look at me. Open your eyes,” the voice demanded, holding her wrists tightly.

Fearfully, she did as he commanded and saw the owner of that voice glaring down at her.  There was blood on his white cravat, and startlingly Sansa felt cold wetness all over her chemise. Her eyes followed her hands down to her body discovering it covered in deep red.

It wasn’t her blood, and the reality made her scurry back from the dark-haired man only to bump into something large and warm. Turning around, the dead body of the foul-smelling man lay with his eyes staring at nothing.

Sansa screamed and recoiled as if touching a hot iron. The voice behind her was trying to calm and sooth but all she could see as she tried to stand, where the bodies of four dead men littering the ground. The sight chilled her more than the evening cold.

Sansa’s eyes darted from one dead man to the next, to the man Brune cleaning blood off his saber before gathering the horses and the marquess standing near sheathing his elegant rapier with a look of fury on his face. Her stomach lurched, and she felt faint. Looking down at herself, Sansa was drenched in blood and mud. Her shredded clothes lay strewn to the side as Lord Baelish removed his cloak. No sooner had the man wrapped its warmth around her did she collapse into him.

The gentle rocking motion and fierce heartbeat opened her eyes. A strong arm held Sansa about her waist as dense trees gave way to a clearing. Her muddied feet dangled alongside the horse that moved at a steady gait. She could see Brune ahead with a few horses tethered behind him.

“You’re finally awake, I see,” the marquess grumbled, and Sansa had no idea what to say.

 _Thank you_ seemed an awkward answer in every way as Sansa thought better to stay silent.

“I will say this only once…” he began and the vehemence in his tone was menacing. “If you ever do something that stupid and dangerous again, I will not come for you. Cat’s daughter or not. I do not have the time nor the patience to chase after foolish little girls running off to get robbed, raped, and murdered in the wilderness.”

His grip on her waist dug sharply making her wince slightly.

“Do we understand each other, my lady?” he spat, and Sansa could only nod her head against his chest that heaved with anger. “ _Good._ ”

Sansa had been sheltered her whole life despite living in the north. The people there had a certain respect for each other, and her father never worried too much that someone would genuinely harm his daughters. After her family’s execution, Aunt Lysa had never allowed Sansa to leave the Eyrie without a proper chaperone. She was rarely permitted to go anywhere for fear that she might embarrass them amongst the ton. The duchess kept a tight tether on her niece regardless of her strict and proper upbringing.

Uncle Edmure, however, was less and less mindful of her after months in Riverrun. Fairmarket was too far, and they only frequented a small village down the road for their needs. Even then, Mrs. Cole always accompanied her, but the villagers never paid them any mind.

Tonight, she was reckless and willful in running away into the unknown. She thought she could buy her way north but never thought it through. Some men would want more than gold from a young girl. How naïve she was. Lord Baelish didn’t have to come after her and was lucky to find her. Those men were going to rape her and possibly kill and leave her for dead.

The tears welled up, and a sob racked Sansa’s lungs. Hot and salty streams ran down her face, and she couldn’t stop crying into the marquess’ chest. The man’s grip softened, and suddenly, the ferocity left his voice as he hushed her softly.

“Sssh, everything will be all right now, don’t cry,” he whispered tenderly, leaning his chin on top of her matted hair. “It will be all right.”

Sansa didn’t believe him. Nothing would ever be right again. Tears fell unremittingly as she sobbed and held onto this stranger that saved her life not once but now twice. The roar of the sky erupted as it began to pour down upon them. She heard the man curse and commanded the horse into a full gallop. Sansa held onto him tightly fearing she might slide off. Rain mixed with tears, but she could see the faint lights of the inn just across the river.

A wave of relief came over her sore and shivering body. Once the rain came down, it made the autumn iciness of the night unbearable. Fingers trembled to hold onto the man even as they entered the stable. Brune helped her down as his master dismounted his horse. Sansa was more aware than ever that she was clad in nothing more than a bloodied chemise and cloak. The idea of walking back into the inn like this, with everyone’s eyes on her, was petrifying. Sansa’s legs wobbled a bit walking towards the door before arms lifted her into his carrying her across to the inn quickly.

Lord Baelish didn’t parade her through the pub but instead hauled her up the back stairwell, back to the room where she should have remained. Setting her down, Sansa sat in the wooden chair and held the soaking wet cloak tight. The man glanced in the faded mirror and huffed in annoyance at his drenched reflection. This was not what he had in mind this evening, and Sansa dared not look at him.

“Considering how little you are wearing, I can expect to find you here when I return,” he said curtly, and without waiting for a reply, Lord Baelish left her alone once again.

It felt like ages as she sat there in the cold, sodden cloak. Sansa could not move. The basin with water sat on the table next to her, and she desperately wanted to wash from her body the filth of tonight. However, a certain man could walk in at any moment, and so she waited to shiver in the chair. The latch of the door clicked as the marquess entered the room as soaked as when he left but wearing another cloak.

From under his arm and the protection of the cloak, he produced a bundle of several garments and laid them on the bed. Tucked in the corner of the room was an old wooden screen, and the man extended it open between the bed and the wall. Draping the wet cloak over the top, he kicked off his muddy boots one by one. When his hands went to the buttons of his coat, Sansa’s eyes widened and desperately looked away. She heard him sigh and move behind the screen. Agonizing long minutes went by as she listened as he discarded his clothing. Sansa spied his bare arm in the mirror, reaching for clean, dry clothing on the bed only to disappear again.

He walked around the screen, buttoning his pale green waistcoat and did not bother with a cravat. He glanced at Sansa briefly before taking in his reflection and slicking back his wet hair.

“If there is not enough water to clean yourself up, Brune will be standing guard just outside. He will have a maid bring you more. Shall I send up some tea, or do you need something stronger to take off the chill?” he asked so casually as if nothing had happened.

“Tea,” she utterly so softly that it barely passed her lips.

“Hmm… perhaps a little honey and whiskey just in case. It does wonders for consumption. I’ll return in an hour or so,” he added and left the room.

Sansa stood and let the wet cloak drop to the floor, the cream lining stained with blood. She was about to pull her chemise away when she paused, looking at the door. Quickly, she dragged the screen across the room, shielding her from any unexpected entrance. Sansa peeled the bloody chemise and threw it on the floor. That and the dress left in the woods were the last decent ones she owned. Glancing at the bundle of clothing on the bed, she saw a single piece of soap on top.

It took some time to cleanse the mud and leaves from her hair, and just as the marquess surmised, she needed more water. Brune brought up another pitcher rather quickly setting it just inside the door before closing it again. Sansa was finally clean and tossed the dirty water out the window into the rain.

Untying the bundle, Sansa gazed down in sorrow. Lord Baelish had brought her clothing from her trousseau. Before her was the light blue dress, her mother had made for Sansa’s wedding, long before she was promised to Joffrey. Her parents honestly thought she would be engaged before her first season was out. Indeed, the king arranged with his old friend the duke to wed their children when his son became entranced with Stark’s beautiful daughter. Sansa never dreamed she would become a princess. Then the king died, a revolution began, and Sansa never truly understood what happened. She never loved or even cared for Prince Joffrey, but it was a match that any young lady of the ton would wish for. She was a duke’s daughter, after all.

Sansa fingered the soft muslin and silks. They were years old and starting to fade. The last time she looked at anything in her trousseau, Sansa lived in the Eyrie. Now, she was a fair bit taller, and even though she became slimmer during her time in Riverrun, was not quite sure the dress would fit. She used the soft linen the clothing was wrapped in to dry herself. The stockings were too snug on her long limbs, but the chemise was so smooth that Sansa closed her eyes to the feeling. She had not worn something so fine in years, and it was only a shift for heaven’s sake.

Sansa set the corset aside until morning and slipped on the dress. It was short and noticeably so. With the corset cinched tight, she might be able to lace the back of the dress. Gazing in the mirror it was all too obvious the dress was old fashion and meant for someone else. Sansa wasn’t that girl anymore. She hadn’t been for years. The mark on her left cheek was proof of that.

It had been at least two hours since Lord Baelish left, and Sansa was exhausted. The candle was low when she climbed into the bed, pulling the rough wool bedclothes over her. The storm raged overhead, and Sansa wished it would pass quickly. She hated thunderstorms now and always dreaded them knowing peaceful sleep would never come.

Fatigue winning over, her eyes closed while her mind drifted to the past. She was pleading with the new king and his mother.

_Spare them!_

_Mercy!_

Mother, father, and all her siblings stood in the rain facing the firing squad. Sansa screamed and cried as a guard held her. A wicked smile formed on the king’s face when he gave the order.

“Fire!”

The gunshots rang out as the loud clap of thunder boomed, and Sansa closed her eyes and screamed. The guard was shaking her, but she kept pushing him away.

“Wake up,” Lord Baelish ordered gently.

Sansa opened her eyes, recognizing the marquess above slightly shaking her as she still pushed at his chest.

“You’re having a nightmare,” he said with concern written across his face.

The man was hovering over her on one side of the small bed. His shirt was loose, and his hair mussed from sleep.

He had been sleeping in this bed unbeknownst to her!

Sansa shoved him back hard, drawing the linens to her neck.

“How dare you, my lord,” she recoiled. “You promised…”

“I promised nothing, my lady,” Baelish retorted coldly. “You forfeited my kindnesses when you ran off tonight. I am beyond fatigued and refuse to sleep in that hideous chair for your benefit. You’re more than welcome to it.”

He turned his back to her and pulling the blanket over his shoulder.

“Go to sleep. I have no interest in raping women,” he added and then said no more.

Sansa lay frozen on her back next to him. Everything she had been taught demanded she get out of the bed, but she was also debilitated from the past day and stared at the chair in dread. Glancing at his back, Sansa debated whether to take the blanket and lie on the floor. He certainly wasn’t going to be a gentleman in this situation. It was chilly, and Sansa was sure she would freeze on the wooden floor.

Frowning, she shifted to the edge of her side of the bed, putting as much space as she could between her and the marquess. Sharing a room with this man was more than enough to compromise her in the eyes of the ton. They would demand he marry her, and Sansa winced. If he refused, the Marquess of Harrenhal would even be more notorious than his libertine reputation, _and she would be a whore_. He would still be in good standing with the ton because of his title and gender, and Sansa would be the scourge of any lady of breeding.

Men could practically get away with anything without tarnishing their character and some even getting praise for it. However, all women tended to be judged harshly regardless of title, and very few could save their reputations depending on whom they were associated with and money. Sansa had neither.

She yanked on the bedclothes, and the man had the audacity to tug back. She pulled again, and the marquess sighed harshly. All of a sudden, he rose from the bed and grabbed his now dry cloak hanging from the screen. Donning the finely tailored wool, he climbed back into bed, keeping his back to her. Sansa pulled the rest of the blanket around her and curled into her edge of the bed with a small smile.

That morning, Sansa was fixing her hair when Baelish sent up a maid to help her dress. Unwilling to sleep only in her chemise, made her once bridal dress rumpled and creased. Whom was she meant to impress at Harrenhal? His staff? It mattered not.

The girl laced her corset, and Sansa was distressed when the bodice was obviously still too small. Sansa did not fasten the garment before going to bed for comfort’s sake, but now, as she stood before the mirror, she did not know what to do. She had the girl do her best and tie it off but in doing so Sansa could scarcely breath, and she couldn’t move her arms in fear of tearing the delicate silk and lace.

Eyeing at her reflection, Sansa wanted to cry. This is how she might have looked had she married Joffrey minus the darkening bruise forming on her cheek. Had her father not rebelled, she would have been married to that awful boy and probably given her more bruises judging his violent temper. Her feet ached inside the unworn silk slippers that her feet were now too large. The girl in the mirror looked ridiculous, Sansa thought. Wrapping the delicately woven cashmere shawl around her shoulders to hide her laced back, Sansa went downstairs to break her fast.

Lord Baelish was already waiting as she sat across from him and his mouth twitched hiding a grin.

“Best be mindful of what you eat today, my dear,” he began. “You’re ready to burst out of that gown. That would be quite an introduction never seen at Harrenhal.”

The smirk on his face irritated Sansa as she ignored his obvious bait.

“I doubt your staff would be surprised, m’ lord,” she countered. “Considering the lewd women you are known to associate with.”

Sansa wasn’t attempting pleasantry or propriety any longer. Looking up, however, the smile on Baelish’s face was not the anticipated frown she expected.

The round woman from the previous night gasped when she set down a bowl of porridge in front of the young lady. The woman stared at the bruise on her face and then scowled at his lordship.

“I didn’t give her that,” he sneered. “I’m betting women receive far worse around these parts.”

The woman took her coins and moved on, leaving them alone. After a few spoonfuls, Sansa couldn’t stomach any more pushing it away and drinking a horrible tea that probably would taste better with honey and whiskey.

The meal was blissfully silent, and immediately, the carriage was brought around for their hasty departure. Lord Baelish wanted to arrive at Harrenhal before nightfall, he said. He lifted Sansa to the step avoiding the deep mud once again, but when she grasped the handle alongside the door to help herself in, she heard and felt fabric tear along the seam of her shoulder. Sansa sat down and huffed in annoyance. It seemed to be just one thing after another. She fixed the shawl to cover herself and waited as his lordship ascended the carriage.

They had traveled for several minutes when Sansa broke the silence. She couldn’t help herself any longer.

“Why did you bring this dress? I had others in my trunk. Why look through my trousseau?” she asked angrily.

The man did not even have the decency to look at her as he spoke, instead choosing to watch the countryside.

“I looked through your trunk, my dear. There was nothing suitable in there,” Baelish grimaced. “I won’t have you looking like a servant when entering my home and meeting the household.”

“What difference does it make, my lord? I look absurd in this dress that, not only does not fit me but is old and out of fashion. At least in my other clothes, I would be comfortable and able to breathe,” she spat viciously.

“Ladies fashions often bemuse me,” he contemplated, “Impractical, uncomfortable and really only for the eyes of men.”

“Then why am I wearing this?” she asked in irritation.

“I was merely curious as to how your old wedding dress would have looked on you,” he mused as he finally glanced at her with an unmistakable admiration. “You would have been a vision, my lady.”

Sansa did not know what to say to that and used her shawl as a shield, wrapping it around her bosom. The man laughed and leaned his head back against the cushioned seat.

Before noon, they reached Lord Holloway’s Town, and Sansa thought it was refreshing to see a real township again. The market was bustling, and everyone had a place to be it seemed. Sansa was famished and was disappointed when the carriage stopped, not at a place to dine, but a tailor. _Mr. Wiltshire_ , it read on the sign.

The cobblestone streets were wet but thankfully clear of mud as Sansa descended the carriage refusing the marquess’ hand this time. It wasn’t Kings Landing or even the Eyrie, but strangers gave her an odd look when they passed by. Sansa’s ankles were showing, as her skirts were too short and she consciously pulled the shawl tighter around the ill-fitting bodice.

Baelish escorted her into the shop and Sansa sighed in relief seeing they were the only patrons. She wandered to bolts of beautiful fabrics to busy herself as the tailor walked in, recognizing one of his best patrons.

“My lord, lovely to see you again. How may I serve you?” the man, Wiltshire, beamed.

“Ah, I would like another one of those beautiful cloaks you made me months ago. Also…” the marquess’ head turned in Sansa’s direction, and she went back to looking at the fabrics, “I would like you to take the lady’s measurements. She will require a new wardrobe.”

Sansa’s eyes widened in disbelief. Why would he buy her a new wardrobe? What was she to him, a doll he could dress up, a façade to present to any guests in his home?

“A full wardrobe, m’ lord? _Delicates and everything?_ ” Wiltshire asked quietly as if he might offend the young lady in his shop.

“Everything,” Baelish stated firmly. “I want the finest, mind you. Only the finest will do. You know my tastes. Madame Berkins in Kings Landing has all the latest fashions, of course. Money is not an issue…”

“Oh no, of course not, m’ lord,” the tailor smiled. “ _And I’m a man of discretion..._ ”

Both Sansa and Baelish caught his meaning, shifting to look at him. Sansa then glared at her new benefactor. She would not be labeled as some kind of kept woman… _a whore_.

“Discretion? I don’t know what you mean?” the marquess feigned surprise. “The Lady Sansa and I were attacked on the River Road by thieves last night. I’m afraid they took almost everything, including my lady’s trunk. All that was left was an old dress, as you can see. Which brings me to another inquiry,” he smiled. “Have you a dress that is prêt-à-porter for my lady right now? She is terribly uncomfortable.”

The man squirmed a bit before answering.

“I do, my lord, but” he hesitated.

“But? I will pay you handsomely, Wiltshire,” Baelish offered in kind.

“You see, it was commissioned for Lord Frey’s new young wife… He will be expecting it in a few days…” the tailor muttered anxiously.

“Ah, well nothing is easier my friend,” Baelish said, drawing out his purse of gold coins. “You tell Frey that it will be a little longer, but you will give him a dress finer than the one he purchased for his child bride. She’s not a short girl, is she?”

The marquess paid the man more than whatever Sansa thought the dress was worth.

“Oh no, my lord. I’d say she’s about the same size as your lady here,” he smiled. “Not as pretty though.”

“Extra for your troubles. If Lord Frey is not satisfied, you send him to me,” Baelish grinned. “Now, if we can move along, I am in a hurry to return home.”

“Of course, my lord, of course,” the tailor smiled greedily. “Come, my dear. I’ll have my mistress measure you and fit Lady Frey’s dress. You poor thing, it must have been a terrible ordeal, robbed by highwaymen…. The marquess will bring some needed order to this county…” the man blathered on as he took her into the next room.

Over an hour later, the woman had measured, dressed, and fitted the new gown to Sansa’s frame. Lord Frey’s new bride was just a tad larger around the middle and bosom, but everything else was almost a perfect fit. Sansa wondered at the age of the new countess and gagged at the thought of having to marry a man so old that he could be her grandfather. Sansa would have drunk poison before letting her parents marry her to someone like that. Not to mention that Lord Frey, who swore fealty to her father, betrayed him for the king. If there were a vengeful God, that man would die a horrible death.

The woman was finishing the laces as Sansa looked in the mirror. The dress wasn’t beautiful, but it would do. She could hardly complain. It was better than anything she had owned in years. The dark blue suited her red hair and azure eyes. It wasn’t a ball gown but more suited for the evening rather than a traditional morning or afternoon dress. However, it was more current in fashion than her old bridal dress and everything in her trunk.

“There you are my lady, you look lovely if I may say so,” the woman smiled sweetly and reminded Sansa of Mrs. Cole. “If I know his lordship’s taste, you’ll have the finest wardrobe of any royal in Kings Landing.”

Sansa didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want things from him, for that would mean she would be indebted to him in some way. However, she smiled warmly at the woman and thanked her properly for the dress and kindness.

She retrieved her shawl, leaving the old bridal dress behind. The shawl was the last thing she had belonging to her mother and could never throw it away. Sansa walked back into the parlor where the men were discussing politics of the region.

Lord Baelish’s face held a look of satisfaction when his mouth twitched into a smile before correcting himself. He bowed slightly and gave Sansa his arm before turning back to the tailor.

“Remember, send Madam Berkins her measurements, hair colour, ivory skin, and blue eyes. I want only the latest and best for my Lady Sansa. Come to Harrenhal to have her fitted properly.”

“I will, my lord, have no worries,” the man replied as Baelish held the door open for her to the busy streets.

Once in the carriage, Sansa spoke with reluctance, “Thank you, my lord. The dress is lovely...” she hesitated again.

“But…” he answered in wait.

“I do not need a wardrobe or anything from you,” she said softly not meeting his eyes.

“You would rather walk around in rags?” he laughed incredulously.

“No… but it is not for you to buy me such things,” she added. “I refuse to be indebted to you, sir.”

At that, Baelish laughed loudly, further angering her as she tried to ignore him completely.

“My dear, if you wish to wander about my house in rags, I will not stop you,” he chuckled. “However, I think I may know you better than you realize. I’m very good at reading people.”

Sansa scowled at him, “You nothing about me except my parentage.”

“I know you are still a marchioness and should be a duchess; I might add, regardless of what the king says. Ladies of your breeding do not wear rags,” he smiled at her turned up and stubborn chin. “ _You_ , my dear, should never be covered in rags.”

At that moment, her stomach growled in a very unladylike fashion, making him chuckle again.

“We’ll stop and have lunch. There’s a place I know where the food is actually edible,” the marquess grinned. “Come, take that sour look off your pretty face. That bruise is bad enough without you frowning too.”

“I wouldn’t have this bruise if it weren’t for you,” she said under her breath, yet he heard her clearly, and immediately the mood changed for the worse.

“ _I see_. If you wish, I can have you escorted right back to those men in Riverrun. We’ll see what brothel they’ll have you slave in first and how many men beat you senseless when you don’t please them,” he spat cruelly. “What say you?”

Sansa clutched her mother’s shawl for protection and could not answer him out of pride, making the marquess huff loudly.

“ _Starks_ … pride, stubbornness, duty and ridiculous family honor… utterly ignorant of the world around you until it’s too late,” he muttered to himself.

The carriage stopped, and Baelish ordered her to stay inside while his man, Brune, acted as warden. A half hour passed when he returned with a basket and two bottles of wine. He ordered the driver to take them to Harrenhal as Sansa sat in confusion.

Lord Baelish was in a foul mood, and she dared not argue with him when he handed her a bottle. He placed a serviette on his lap before buttering a slice of fresh bread and retrieving a small chicken leg and began eating quietly, avoiding her stare. He pushed the basket over to her and said nothing.

After several minutes of silence, he glanced her way with an eyebrow raised.

“If you’re not hungry, my dear, we can stop, and I’ll give the rest of this to my men. I’d rather it not go to waste,” he growled. “Dinner at Harrenhal will not be until eight. I don’t need you fainting again for I’m rather tired of carrying you around the past two days, so eat something.”

He uncorked the bottle and took a long drink before taking another piece of chicken. Sansa’s stomach clenched in hunger and decided to swallow her pride for food instead. The wine was better than that at the inn, and she was tempted to drink the entire bottle to get tipsy.  She feared vomiting all over her new dress and instead took small sips to wash down her lunch.

Blessedly, the trip from Lord Holloway’s Town and Harrenhal was much shorter than she anticipated. Out the carriage window, as they crested a small hill, Sansa could see it, and it took her breath away. The house was grander than anything she ever saw in her life. It dwarfed Winterfell and even the Eyrie by comparison. Sansa had never traveled to Kings Landing, but if the palace was any more significant than this, it couldn’t be by much.

She had read the history and knew how old Harrenhal was. It was the original royal palace back in the day of the Mad King. A massive fire destroyed much when his grace, the Duke of StormsEnd lived there. Sansa could have never imagined such a stunning home.

Lord Baelish must be wealthy indeed for the house looked as if flames never touched it. It was not quite the old castle Sansa envisioned in fairytales with a drawbridge, massive stone towers, and turrets. The estate was significantly remodeled. Harrenhal had been given to his lordship in complete disrepair and he managed to turn it into a mansion that rivaled any wealthy family in the south.

The lake was visible behind the house, and Sansa could see craftsmen still working on the roof and many gardeners preparing for the coming winter.

This ancestral estate is where she would live now. This house with such history, sorrow, debauchery, and wars. This house was rumored to be haunted or even cursed from the locals in the Riverlands. This is where fate and the stars had brought her, and Sansa wasn’t sure if it was for better or for worse.

 

 

 

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	4. Chapter 4

  

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The carriage made its way over a stone bridge towards the great house of Harrenhal as Sansa watched in amazement at all the buzzing of busy bees. The groundskeepers were preparing for winter, though she could imagine how beautiful the gardens would look come spring. Hedges trimmed in exquisite detail and flowerbeds just waiting for warmth and sunshine. Carpenters on scaffolding were still working on what appeared to be the west wing of the house, and Sansa wondered what it looked like on the inside.

The stonework still held elements of its ancient history but clearly, the late duke and now the marquess had made substantial changes from the old drawings she had seen in her father’s study. The massive walls surrounding the once magnificent royal castle meant to keep out one’s enemies were no more, but in turn for beautiful gardens with stone terraces. Where an old moat should have been with a drawbridge, there was now a bubbling brook with a simple stone bridge. The marquess had managed to turn this old, half-burnt and dreary castle into something fit for a king.

Staring at the grand estate, Sansa fancied if the rumored ghosts approved of all the new changes to their home. So many were the stories of all who died at Harrenhal. Sansa could hardly believe them when she was a child. Her sister was the one that loved the old northern faerie tales of the wailing banshee, changelings, daoine sidhe and the mischevious pucas. If any place could be ripe with such legends, it would have been Harrenhal back in the day.

Every aristocrat of who took residence here since the days of old met with an unfortunate fate. It had been deemed cursed, and since the demise of the Duke of StormsEnd, not a single lord was willing to take it. Such men would never admit this was so, but still, they refused the wealthy estate time and time again. Sansa preferred to believe the happier tales of the grand balls with ladies in silk dresses who danced with handsome gentlemen. Gazing at her new home, it did not look like a place filled with ghosts and goblins.

The horses halted the carriage to a stop. A footman opened the door as Lord Baelish stepped out and held his hand for her to follow him. All eyes would be upon her and Sansa dared not appear rude as she was a guest in his home. Her mother’s teachings were ever present to always be the well-mannered lady she was expected to be. Sansa took his gloved hand and descended to find everyone watching her every move.

Baelish guided her up the grand entrance just as the heavy oak doors opened, revealing a slender but stern older man with a deep frown upon his pale face. His posture was rigid as he bowed curtly and followed them into the marble foyer.

“My lord, we expected you earlier,” the man spoke and suddenly gave Sansa questioning look but dismissed her just as quick. “The gardeners shall be finished by tomorrow. However, the west wing shan’t be completed until week’s end. It took longer than expected for the new architect to adapt the foreign-designed water pipes that you requested. It’s ready for your inspection as is the new staff.”

The marquess removed his cloak handing it to the footman, and Sansa remained quiet watching the exchange between the two men.

“Have we acquired a housekeeper yet?” Baelish asked.

“No, my lord. Mrs. Ames is handling the bulk of the house staff, and I am taking charge of the rest. We’ll manage for now,” the man replied.

“Very well, Duncan. Lady Sansa should be able to take charge of the household in due time. A place such as this needs a proper lady,” the marquess smiled, and Sansa seethed with anger yet said nothing.

So, she was right. Lord Baelish was making her a glorified housekeeper in return for living in his home.

“My dear, this is Duncan. He has been the majordomo of Harrenhal long before I took ownership. Until I can procure a housekeeper, work with him on getting the staff into proper order,” his lordship introduced as he inspected some of the workers moving furniture. “Duncan, may I present the Lady Sansa. Niece of Lord Tully and Her Grace, the Duchess of The Vale. She will be staying with us as my ward.”

Sansa glanced at the butler nodding at him kindly and wasn’t sure if Lord Baelish was going to elaborate further or not. She did not want to appear impotent in front of this man, yet at the same time, she did not wish to breach etiquette. She couldn’t speak and act the way she did with Mrs. Cole and those at Riverrun. Harrenhal’s grandeur demanded a lady of a great house as The Vale and Winterfell. She pulled on her teachings and observations of her aunt and mother and waited for her benefactor to take the lead.

Seemingly satisfied with the progress, Lord Baelish walked back to her and grimaced.

“We must do something about that nasty bruise,” his voice softened. “Duncan, my lady is weary from our journey from Riverrun where we encountered some trouble on the road. Things were stolen, unfortunately. Take what remains of her trunks to…” he paused in thought with a hint of a smile, “I think the lavender room shall do nicely.”

“Yes, my lord,” Duncan replied with another curt bow and snapped his fingers at the footmen to follow.

“Come, my dear,” he chuckled under his breath. “Let see what they’ve done with my money.”

The sour man from the carriage had disappeared and this genial one had replaced him. The marquess had the ability to change his character in an instant, and Sansa found it an odd trait. She was in awe as he guided her gently through the foyer. Polished marble and rich mahogany spanned the architecture. A massive grand staircase wound its way up to three stories high as light poured down from the paned windows high above in the ceiling.

Lush greenery filled corners of the gallery, giving the vast space the feel of southern gardens. Lord Baelish was proud of his new and richly decorated home. He spared no expense in making it nothing short of his palace. The parlor was dressed in hues of blue and was quite inviting, yet everything looked as if it had never been used. Beautiful tapestries and colorful Persian rugs adorned each room with paintings and sculptures that only men of wealth could afford.

Lord Baelish loved color and variety by the way the house was decorated. Winterfell and even the Eyrie paled in comparison to the richness of her new surroundings. The scent from the numerous bouquets filled the air as he drew her into the music room. Sansa had not played the piano since leaving her aunt’s home, and Baelish caught the smile on her face.

“Do you enjoy music?” he asked with a strange look upon his face.

The piano was beautiful and more exquisite than anything she had ever played. Her fingers drifted across the ivory wishing she were alone in this room. Sansa would play for hours back home to her sibling’s irritation. It was the one way she could get back at them for all their teasing of her girlish ways.

Closing her eyes, Sansa’s right hand unconsciously played out a little melody letting the acoustics of the room embrace the sound. For a moment, she felt light of heart until his voice interrupted.

“Will you play for me, sweetling?” he asked. Sansa opened her eyes to find him appraising her in a way that made her avert her eyes.

 _Sweetling_. Why did he call her that? This man should not be using such an endearment to a woman he barely knows, Sansa thought stubbornly. It was a simple request, which generally would not have bothered her in the slightest. The _way_ he asked unnerved Sansa.

“If you wish, my lord,” Sansa replied thinly, sitting and refusing to meet his eyes.

Before he could utter another word, her fingers found the keys and the melancholy tone of one of Beethoven’s sonatas echoed in the room. Sansa focused on the music as her hands floated across the ebony and ivory. She could see Lord Baelish move closer, and Sansa closed her eyes again wishing he wasn’t there. Sansa pretended to be back home playing while her mother embroidered, and father read quietly by the fire. She could almost hear the children playing in the garden when a tear fell. For a slight moment, the world stopped, and she couldn’t play anymore.

The marquess didn’t ask why she stopped, nor did he seem to expect an answer of any kind. Only one word came from his lips, uttered in faint praise.

“ _Beautiful._ ”

Sansa swallowed with difficulty not wanting to cry in front of this man. She desired to be away from him, away from everyone in this house.

“I’m fatigued. I should like to retire… if I may be shown to my new room…” she breathed, avoiding his unwavering gaze.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly, and Sansa raised her head catching something in his eyes for half a heartbeat and then it was gone.

Baelish cleared his throat, and in an instant, he smiled, but it never reached his eyes.

“Come. We’re on the second floor in the east wing,” his lordship pointed out nonchalantly and started walking out of the room.

_We?_

Lord Baelish had a way of saying a simple word that struck a strange chord in her. It wasn’t exactly fear, for he could have taken advantage of her at any time in the last two days. He was an educated and worldly man, not born into a family but bought his way up. He was a gentleman in some ways and yet not in others. Sansa did not know what to make of him.

She reluctantly followed, feeling the stares of the staff. Surely, they were wondering why she was here. They certainly weren’t expecting their master to arrive with a lady in tow.Sansa picked up her skirts to catch up with the marquess’ long stride to the grand staircase. He waited patiently and took her elbow gently, guiding her up until they reached the second floor.

Everything in the house was ornate and beautiful, however, this floor was breathtaking. Thick rugs expanded the dark wood floors and the walls gilded with gold leaf with high vaulted ceilings.

Lord Baelish stopped and opened a door for her entry. The room was bathed in cream and lavender as soft light filtered through the curtains. It was prettier than anything she had from her aunt and uncle’s homes, but it still did not feel like it was hers.

“Not all of the rooms are finished, but this will do,” he stated quickly. “I wasn’t exactly expecting guests so soon.”

Sansa eyed his reflection leaning against the door from the small vanity table.

“I’m sorry I have inconvenienced you, my lord,” Sansa replied with a touch of annoyance. If she was such a bother, why didn’t he leave her in Riverrun?

He chuckled lightly, “Not so much an inconvenience, but…”

Lord Baelish hesitated, and Sansa was curious as to what he was going to say. Instead, he sighed straightening his posture.

“This room doesn’t have an adjoining privy. You’ll need to use the one down this hallway,” his lordship offered wryly. “I’ll send up one of the maids for tonight, and you can choose whom you wish tomorrow.”

Sansa nodded and wondered at the time.

“When do you expect me for dinner this evening?” she finally asked.

“I don’t. I’m afraid I’m not in the mood for entertaining tonight. I’ll see that Mrs. Ames brings your supper to you. I believe we’ve had enough of each other for now. Goodnight, my lady,” he replied coolly.

Just like that, he shut the door leaving Sansa alone.

Sansa did not know what to make of her new benefactor as she wandered a bit around her new room. It was lovely if not a little chilly. Looking out the large window, she saw Gods Eye lake. It was larger than she could have imagined with a small isle resting in the middle. A vast forest bordered the west bank of the lake that stretched many acres into the countryside.

Nearer to the estate, Sansa could see a few small tributaries from the lake and two large water mills at work. They had water mills back home but not with copper pipes running from them to the house. Sansa overheard some men talking about new science from foreign countries and laughing, but Lord Baelish seemed to put it to use. Duncan had pointed out that the marquess’ plans took longer than expected, and it piqued Sansa’s curiosity.

The gardens and terraces behind the house were more extensive than what she had seen when they arrived. A pathway led to a vast set of hedges and Sansa had to stare at it for several moments in the dimming light only to see that it was a labyrinth of sorts. The hedges were taller than two men standing atop of each other she gathered. Why would Lord Baelish want a labyrinth? It seemed an odd thing entirely.

It wasn’t long until a maid brought her dinner and helped Sansa undress. The small bath chamber had a copper tub barely large enough for someone half her size. Sansa was tall for a woman, nearly Lord Baelish’s height, and the tub was only useful for a full sponge bath. At least this time the water was hot and the soap gentle.

It was late by the time she finished bathing and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed. Sansa hadn’t seen or heard from the marquess the entire night, and clearly, he seemed to be as tired of her as she was of him.

Perhaps he was second-guessing bringing her here, Sansa smiled. Maybe, in the morning, he would admit his mistake and send her back to Riverrun. Sansa giggled at the thought of the arrogant Lord Baelish conceding a mistake, but when she climbed into the warm feather bed, all thoughts of leaving Harrenhal vanished for a moment.

The linens were a fine weave and the bed so soft that she sunk into it as if wrapped in a cloud. It had been so long since she had a bed so comfortable, one that did not smell of must and dampness. Sansa pulled the bedclothes up and snuggled deep. The scent of lavender was on the pillows, and the heat created from the bed warmer lulled her worries away. Tomorrow was a new day, and she would take it one step at a time. Right now, Sansa wanted to forget everything and dream in this blessing of a bed. No longer were knights in gleaming armor or perfect gentlemen to save this sullen girl from her lonely tower. No, she was on her own – no family but herself.

It wasn’t the dreaded thunder that woke her out of a dead sleep. The room was silent save a strange sound that seemed to come from below. Sansa opened her eyes and felt as if someone had been watching her. She curled the bedclothes up to her face, and the scent reminded her she wasn’t in her old room anymore. This wasn’t Riverrun, but Harrenhal and the past two days rang through her memory.

The sound reminded her of something but couldn’t place it as her eyes scanned the room with trepidation. It felt as if someone was walking over her grave. The moonlight streaming through the curtains told her it was very late. The household was sleeping, and yet she was wide awake now. Moving out of her warm bed, Sansa put on her dressing gown and went to her door. Yes, something was going on downstairs. Through the door, it sounded like _music_?

Who would be playing at this ungodly hour of the night? Moreover, it struck her. The stories of Harrenhal’s curse played up her childish fancies. Sansa cracked the door open and peered into the darkness. The moon’s silver light glimmered down from the skylights above casting eerie shadows down the grand staircase. Not a voice or candlelight could be detected as her eyes peered down the hallway.

The music was more evident now as she stepped towards the marble banister and dared herself to look down. Someone was playing the piano. It wasn’t just any melody but the solemn one she played yesterday. The music room was directly underneath, and yet not a flicker from a candle could be seen. It was dark and quiet, except for the anger that came from below. It wasn’t so much the same sonata that gave her fear but the way it was being played right now. There was a quiet fury in the gloomy tune. Sansa was about to speak when one of the servant girls hurried down the hallway catching her by the arm.

“Sssh. It’s best not to let them know you hear them,” the young woman hushed as she pulled at Sansa’s arm.

“Who?”

“The spirits, m’ lady,” she whispered.

Sansa scoffed a little, “Someone is playing the piano downstairs, that’s all. Why at this time of night, it is unusual…”

“No, m’ lady. They come out at night in this place. His lordship might have rebuilt Harrenhal, but they have always been here only to remind us,” she said, dragging Sansa back to her room.

“I don’t believe in such things…”

“Well, beggin’ your pardon, you should. This isn’t Riverrun. There’s a reason why his lordship has trouble keeping staff here. They all leave sooner or later,” she continued to whisper as the music played on.

Sansa wanted to go downstairs and prove it, but the maid practically hauled her back inside her room and closed the door.

“Silly superstitions. I thought only northerners believed in such things,” Sansa huffed and took off her dressing gown.

The maid put her ear to the door and sighed, “Mrs. Ames says that when the living returned to Harrenhal, they woke the dead. I don’t think they like his lordship. Ever since he came, we hear them more and more.”

“How do you mean?” Sansa wondered tucking her feet back under the covers.

The girl smiled as if she found a new friend and sat next to Sansa on the bed, “Well, Duncan says this place is cursed. A couple of the footmen said there’s a torture chamber somewhere under the house when it was an old castle, but no one knows for sure. I think they were trying to scare the other maids. There are strange sounds that come at night, and then the music started. It’s always at this hour, yet whenever anyone goes down into the music room, it’s empty. _Every time_.”

“It’s not someone playing a silly game, you think?” Sansa smiled.

“When I heard it tonight, I came out thinking it was you that had gone downstairs. However, when I saw you on the landing…. No one had ever heard that song before you came yesterday. His lordship doesn’t play. There has never been any music in this house unless it’s this hour. Sometimes you hear sounds that seem to come from the floor and walls. Duncan says the gates of hell are under this house and that’s why the marble floors are so warm downstairs.”

Sansa grinned and leapt out of bed, “Let’s go see. Show me.”

“Oh no, m’ lady. I don’t go down there at night. You could give me a gold piece, and I still wouldn’t do it,” the girl shrank back.

“Well, I’m not afraid,” Sansa giggled and opened the door looking back at the girl. “Are you coming?”

The maid followed Sansa reluctantly to the landing but no further. The music had long ceased as Sansa crept down the grand staircase. Her heart was pounding as she reached the bottom, from exhilaration or fear, she knew not. The music room was dark, and Sansa was frightened to look inside, afraid a real ghost would jump out. Just as she thought, the room was empty. The piano stood in the middle of the room, casting a large shadow on the rug from the moonlight.

Sansa moved to the piano, as silent as the dead, scanning the room with wide eyes. The bench was cold to the touch. She pressed a few keys and waited. Nothing. Sansa smiled to herself. Someone was playing a game to scare the maids, and it was working. Just as she started to walk out of the room and loud bellow came from the floor freezing Sansa to the bone.

Turning around slowly, she half expected to see a ghost staring back at her for entering it’s domain, yet there was nothing. She was practically panting as her heart raced faster. Slowly, she stepped back until her feet slipped a little on the polished marble. Out of fear or stubborn determination to prove the maid wrong, Sansa pulled her bare foot from the slipper and placed it on the cold floor.

Only it wasn’t cold. _It was warm_. Sansa’s foot flinched as if it had been burned and slipped it quickly back into her shoe. A deep and dark chuckle reverberated from the floor and walls sounding like the Devil himself; furthermore, it was enough for Sansa to scurry back up the stairs to the safety of the second floor finding herself alone once again.

The maid had disappeared, and Sansa wondered for a moment if the girl wasn’t a spirit as well, there to warn her. Sansa ran back into her room and locked the door before jumping into bed and pulling the linen over her head. If spirits wanted in, a locked door surely would not keep them out.

Minutes passed slowly; moreover, nothing happened. The house was again quiet, cold and Sansa snuggled deeper into the bed. Dear God, not only was she ward of a man she detested but now living in a haunted house. She prayed that Lord Baelish would send her away tomorrow. She did not want to be here, regardless of how beautiful his home was. Sansa did not belong here, and she repeated that thought until finally, her troubled mind fell to sleep.

 

 

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	5. Chapter 5

 

  


 

 

  

 

Sansa found it odd when Lord Baelish entered the small dining room long after she had been served. Etiquette, that had been drummed into her since a young age, had Sansa, a guest of the marquess, waiting some time for his arrival before finally tucking in not wanting the food to go cold. He didn’t seem to mind nor consider the notion rude as he sat at the head of the table adjacent to her while a footman poured a cup of tea.

“You’re up earlier than I expected,” he smiled, sipping his tea as a hot plate of breakfast was placed before him.

Sansa raised an eyebrow finishing her eggs. “I don’t know what you expect, my lord.”

“Aren’t titled ladies prone to sleeping until mid-morning?” he teased tucking into his food.

Sansa scoffed, causing him to raise his brows in amusement. He seemed to be in a jovial mood this morning.

“You forget, my lord, I am no longer a lady of title. Even back then, I never slept late nor lay about expecting to be waited on hand and foot like some I know of…” she muttered testily.

Baelish barked in laughter, making her scowl at him. Sansa was in no mood for his games so early in the day.

“You are in quite the pleasant mood this morning,” she added not sure as to why she was attempting conversation with him.

He buttered a small crumpet and grinned, “Ah, it’s remarkable what a long, hot bath and a comfortable bed can do to a man’s disposition. Did you not sleep well, my dear?”

“Fine, thank you,” she quipped, finding her teacup utterly fascinating.

“The dark circles under your eyes tell me differently,” he pointed out, and Sansa hated his sharp observations.

“The bed was soft and the room lovely,” she offered plainly.

“I didn’t ask about your bed, my lady,” he smirked into his tea.

Sansa had enough of his games. “I’m in a stranger’s home and know not what will become of me. I suppose restful sleep wasn’t in the _cards_ for me,” she retorted picking at the fruit on her plate.

Lord Baelish grinned and played along. “Well, if you wish to leave…” and abruptly Sansa’s ears perked up, “… I’ll not stop you. It’s a long walk to Riverrun; it’s best to get an early start, I’d say.”

If servants weren’t standing nearby, Sansa would have stood and slapped him across the face. Instead, she sat and fumed in silence. This man was no gentleman regardless of the title he held.

“You would have a lady walk across the countryside alone dragging her belongings behind her?” she sneered quietly.

He sipped his tea and didn’t even have the grace to look at her as he spoke, “I would have you stop this foolishness. I can see that recklessness in your eyes, my dear. You are not my prisoner here, and I shall not force you to stay. If you wish to leave, then do so, but you do it of your own accord. What did I tell you the night before last?”

Sansa did not have to think on it long. Lord Baelish made it very clear he had no intention of running after her if she disappeared again. Perhaps if she wrote to Uncle Edmure, he would send a carriage or at least a horse and rider for protection.

“If you’re thinking of writing your uncle, by all means,” he added, and Sansa wondered if mind-reading were one of Lord Baelish’s many strange talents. “I would be morbidly curious as to his reply. However, his tremendous debts, for which I shall be settling today may give him... _arrière-pensée_?”

Sansa seethed and wanted nothing more than to toss the china across the room, shattering it into a million pieces. Baelish wasn’t keeping her captive, but he wasn’t giving her a viable alternative either. No matter how his lordship worded it, she was trapped here, and Sansa despised him for it. He had, in no uncertain terms, bought her from the last of her family.

She stood abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord,” she said as politely as she could.

“Of course,” he replied with disinterest. “The morning room is to your right. The gardens may be a bit chilly this early. Do as you wish.”

Sansa was desperate for fresh air and made to turn left towards the gardens when his voice rang out.

“Stay clear of the labyrinth, Lady Sansa. It is quite dangerous,” he projected calmly.

Sansa rolled her eyes and walked out onto the terrace, pulling her shawl around her shoulders. Her faded rose dress was thin and worn, and Sansa should have retreated to the morning room as he suggested, but she needed out of this house even if for only a few minutes.

It was chilly, just as Baelish said, yet Sansa refused to let him win. By damned, he may be the master of the house, but he wasn’t the master of her, Sansa thought! She walked down the stone steps and watched the groundskeepers and carpenters at work as a distraction.

It had been unseasonably cold with too much rain this year and this season’s small harvest was proof. It would be a harsh winter in Riverrun and Sansa remembered the money Lord Baelish gave to Mrs. Cole. If she needed more, he said he would provide amply. For some reason, Sansa believed him. He was tender as a loving son to the old housekeeper and yet, Sansa wondered if her being here would make or break that offer to Mrs. Cole and her uncle.

Sansa did not know what to think anymore as she sat down on a beautifully carved stone bench. The terrace overlooked the lake as grey clouds drifted from the south. The rain was usually a good thing, but Sansa was sick of it. She wished winter was already over with spring around the corner. She could almost feel the sunshine and warmth when a gruff voice spoke from behind.

“Lord Baelish sent me to fetch you,” the old butler announced and Sansa sighed.

She wrapped her mother’s shawl around her shoulders with cold fingers and stood reluctantly. Obviously, she wasn’t meant to have any time to herself if the marquess could help it.

“You are Lady Catelyn’s daughter, are you not?” the man asked sternly, but Sansa nodded all the same. She wanted to correct this butler that her mother was, in fact, a duchess, but for some reason, Sansa felt that it did not matter any longer.

“Hmph. You best not bring your northern treachery to this house, girl,” he grumbled. Offended, Sansa rose to her full height yet remained several inches shorter than the older man whose eyes bore disgust.

“It is not _your_ house, but his lordship’s,” she retorted, laced with ice. “As Lord Baelish mentioned yesterday, I shall be overseeing the household. If it is not to your liking, you may see to him about it.”

The man stood his ground and smirked.

“Nobles come and go, _Lady_ Stark,” he sneered, “but Harrenhal is Harrenhal and will continue to be so after his lordship is long gone. This is an ancient house of royal blood…not fit for traitors or the lowly born.”

Sansa wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that. Duncan was nothing more than a steward over the estate since the late duke’s demise. Other than her and Lord Baelish, everyone in the house was low born. Baelish came from the ton, not a wealthy family but still a part of the peerage. He was not born a high lord but made so by the king. A sovereign gave all the nobles of the realm their prestigious titles at some point in time, which made Duncan’s argument powerless. Sansa did not want to defend Lord Baelish, given his reputation, yet somehow, she felt just as slighted as a traitor as did he for being a self-made man.

Defiant, she walked up to the old butler and glared at him in the eyes, “Well, tis a good thing that neither traitors nor low-borns, _other than yourself_ , reside here.”

Sansa hated referring to the common folk as low born, but she wanted to put this detestable man in his place. Who was he to treat her so wretchedly? Sansa had been nothing but courteous since her arrival yesterday. The Riverlands were not quite the southern gentry and aristocracy her parents spoke of but clearly being a northerner here was a black mark as any. Lord Baelish had introduced her as niece to Lord Tully and the Duchess of The Vale but not the daughter of the late Duke and Duchess of Winterfell. Whether intentional or not, Lord Baelish did not point out her northern heritage at all.

She marched past the majordomo and made her way into the house, asking a footman where to find his lordship. The boy took her to the kitchens seeing Lord Baelish educating the staff about the new water system.

The water pumped from the water mill on the river, and the pressure brought it straight into the kitchen. From the dumbwaiters, it could be transported with greater ease to the upper floors. The women seemed most happy about this modern convenience, but Sansa still wondered at the set of copper piping that led up to the second floor of the east wing.

“Ah, Mrs. Ames, I wish you to meet Lady Sansa. She will be taking charge of the household for a time,” Lord Baelish said with a knowing smile at Sansa. The older woman lined up the maids and a few footmen as the new mistress came into the warm kitchen.

“Madam, tis good to have a fine lady in Harrenhal once again,” Mrs. Ames smiled warmly. “We are at your disposal. Some of the girls are new but do not worry; I’ll have them sorted properly. Any changes to the household that are needed, just come to me… or Duncan,” the kind old woman added as an afterthought.

Sansa grinned, perhaps she was not the only one that did not care for the old butler either. Looking around the massive kitchen, she saw a large greenhouse just outside that piqued her curiosity at what was growing inside. The scent of freshly baked bread and dried herbs hanging from overhead filled the air, and oddly Sansa felt she had more reasons for staying at Harrenhal than leaving. Spying the smug grin on the marquess’ face, perhaps that’s what he had planned for all along.

“Thank you,” Sansa replied to the old woman and smiled to the staff waiting for her approval. “I’m sure everything will work out fine.”

Sansa wasn’t sure what they thought of her. Perhaps, they expected a snobby, little rich girl or someone like her Aunt Lysa, which gave her a thought.

“My aunt, the Duchess, ran a very tight household. I hope you will find that I am not as…” Sansa paused, trying to find the right words, “rigid in that way.” She knew she needed to appear firm, but Sansa did not want to be viewed as a hard-handed harpy either. “The house appears well maintained, I’m sure Lord Baelish appreciates all your hard work, Mrs. Ames.”

Sansa glanced to her benefactor who had a look, was it pride, in his slight smile? She could feel a blush begin to tinge her cheeks when Mrs. Ames came between them and turned her face slightly in concern.

“My lord, you were right. Such a nasty mark on her pretty face isn’t it?” the woman said as she inspected Sansa’s left cheek. “Don’t worry my lady; I’ll fix that up with a little comfrey and mugwort. In a few days, you’ll never know it was there.”

“Thank you,” she uttered shyly but with sincerity.

“I’ll send Sarah up with a fresh poultice tonight for you. Leave it on during the night. Is there anything you wish for tonight’s menu, my lady?” Mrs. Ames asked, and Sansa glanced to the marquess. Would he dine again in his chambers?

“My lord,” she stumbled a bit, “I do not know your tastes as of yet.”

“Mrs. Ames, anything will do. Whatever pleases my lady. I’ll leave it up to you. If you’ll excuse me,” he answered and left Sansa in the kitchen presumably to do what women do.

Sansa spent the remainder of the morning with Mrs. Ames and found her very agreeable and kind. In time, Sansa believed she could grow a similar fondness she had for Mrs. Cole, but there was something odd about the old woman.

Some of the plants in the greenhouse were far from edible, and most modern doctors didn’t use the old ways much anymore. Sansa learnt much from her mother and caregivers in the north. They still adopted those old ways even though the new religion was accepted and practiced throughout the country for generations. Sansa had heard of women that were tortured and burned as witches because they were free thinking and wise. It seemed southern ladies were reduced to nothing more than glamour on a gentleman’s arm. A noble lady of good family was expected to be cultured but quiet, and Sansa did not know if she would have been good at that, especially all that she had been through.

Lord Baelish had one decent quality about him. He did not admonish her for speaking out even when against him. Sansa’s mother would have been embarrassed by her eldest daughter’s insolence towards a high noble, even if it was someone like the marquess. Before her family’s death, Sansa never would have spoken of ill tongue. It was always her sister who was reprimanded for such egregious behavior.

Footmen delivered the marquess’ lunch in his study upstairs while Sansa ate in the library. The man seemingly wanted nothing to do with her today, and Sansa tried to convince herself that it did not bother her. In the back of her mind, she couldn’t escape the feeling of abandonment in some way. He brought her all the way here and now could not stand her presence.

A couple of hours passed, as Sansa grew bored with her book. It had begun to rain outside giving the house a dreary feeling even with all the scuttling about by servants and workers. Lord Baelish probably would have given her a tour of his home yesterday until she demanded to be taken to her room. It was clear she wasn’t going to see him until dinner tonight, so Sansa decided to inspect her new home. As the new lady of the house, it would not seem odd for her to walk about, Sansa convinced herself, and set the unfinished book aside.

Footmen were lighting fires as she wandered, to warm the house in the growing chill of the storm that raged outside. The dining hall could seat forty comfortably and looked as if the room had not seen one supper.

 _I wasn’t expecting guests so soon_.

The smaller dining room she broke her fast this morning was warmer and more inviting, Sansa thought. The sideboards gleamed with polished silver serving trays, chafing dishes, and gilded cutlery. In the servant’s pantry, Lord Baelish had the finest china and crystal just begging to be used.

Crossing the gallery, men were hanging a beautiful painting that covered the entire wall while Sansa gazed at it lovingly. Whatever else, Lord Baelish might be, he was at least a man of good taste. He had an eye for current artists, ones Sansa’s father never approved of, and that of the old masters. The rugs, furnishings, all were the most exquisite artistry. His selections did not seem to impress guests merely but were that of personal interest and taste. Somehow, if Sansa asked him about any one of the paintings in his home, Lord Baelish would be able to tell her about it and the artist in detail unlike most houses that just wanted what was the best and most fashionable.

As she inspected each room, Sansa found so many things that were foreign, leading her to believe that his lordship was well traveled indeed and a man of wealthy means. She heard her father talk of the smugglers and blockade runners that were constantly pirating ships and merchants he needed for the revolution. The night Lord Baelish arrived at the Eyrie, all the talk was of the smuggler that bought his way into favour with the king.

For all Sansa knew, Lord Baelish was partly responsible for her father’s failed revolt. The marquess’ father could not have been anything more than a knight, and now his son was one step away from the title of duke if his luck continued. It was most likely a significant reason why many noble families of the ton were not accepting of this new high lord. Success, money, and power for a man of lesser family name and means had brought him now to own one of the greatest and wealthiest estates in the land.

Sansa stepped onto the intricate parquet floor in diamond patterns with golden sunburst inlays. The ballroom was indeed a sight. Stunning crystal chandeliers twinkled above as mirrors, rich woods and tapestries graced the walls. Of all the stories her mother told of balls at Harrenhal, Sansa thought none would be a grand as one held in this room as it appeared now. She could hear the music play as ladies in folds of silks and lace spun across the floor in the arms of gentlemen with pristine white gloves.

Oh, it would have been lovely to have her first season in a place such as this!

Sansa looked down at her faded, old dress and sighed. Those days were long gone, and never again would she have such a moment. The gentlemen from prominent families were not vying for her hand now, and Sansa would be lucky to be a housekeeper or even a governess at this point with her reputation.

As much as she loathed being the paltry winnings of a card game, Sansa figured her situation could be worse. If Lord Baelish continued to ignore her, she could go about her daily business and sleep in a comfortable room at night. Until he married, of course, she smirked. Sansa wondered how long it would take him to cast her aside when the real mistress of the house came home.

In the music room, Sansa couldn’t help but feel a sense of discomfort. Last night, whether she wanted to admit it or not, was frightening. There, the piano sat as if pleading her to relax and play a song, but Sansa couldn’t bring herself to touch it right now. She was almost tempted to feel the floor wondering if she was dreaming the strange heat coming through, but there were too many eyes about her and instead decided to go upstairs.

Maids were cleaning and setting up other guest rooms as she walked across the landing. Was Lord Baelish expecting guests soon? She didn’t dare ask him. The chatter of servants was low, but Sansa could make out a few giggles and heard one or two comments about her dress. She tried to push those feelings aside as she used to do in the Vale.

Sansa never knew how hurtful ladies of the ton could be. Living under her aunt’s constant scrutiny was terrible enough, but Sansa learned to detest balls and parties of the duchess. Aunt Lysa was always trying to show society how far above them she and her son were, that every young lady should be honored as wife her son. Even when Sansa was introduced into society, her parents never acted as ridiculously as the duchess.

Those young ladies in their fashionable silks and lace were just as cruel as the handsome young men who treated Sansa as nothing more than a wanton. Daughters of traitors did not court proper suitors even if they were still the niece of a powerful duchess. So many times, young men would ask for dances, kisses, and try to steal Sansa away into the gardens. Eventually, Sansa became the dreaded wallflower and refused all invitations and advances in fear of her aunt’s retribution but more so because she knew they were only interested in one thing, and it was never honorable.

The west wing was practically finished just as Duncan said. Studying the house’s construction, it seemed that the guest parlors and rooms were located here as were the servant’s quarters above. The south and east wings of the house were meant for privacy of the master of the house. A few suites including the one Sansa occupied were situated here and at the far end were two sets of carved double doors and another across the hall that was partially open at the very end.

A footman walked by with a tray as a maid told him he was late with his lordship’s tea. The young man slipped inside the doorway and moments later hurried out again towards the stairs. The same maid entered one of the rooms leaving the door ajar and Sansa’s curiosity got the better of her. Peering her head inside, Sansa held her breath in astonishment. This wasn’t a bedroom; it was heaven.

She had never seen something so luxurious and beautiful. Sansa could spend the rest of her life in this room with never a complaint. It was three times the size of her current bedchamber, and that did not include the dressing room and small parlor. This was a bedroom fit for a queen. The walls were bathed in a silvery damask with dark mahogany carved trim with matching tapestries of soft, pale green that hung from the ceiling to the thick, velvety rugs.

Sansa’s feet sunk with each step and felt as if she were walking on a carpet of soft moss. The maid smiled and finished fluffing the pillows on the lavish bed, leaving Sansa alone in the room. The canopy draped down in layers of sheer linen and the same green tapestry giving it a majestic feel and Sansa had such desire to sit on that bed. Delicate satin in champagne, silver, and green covered the bed, and she was afraid even to touch it.

An overwhelming feeling told her she did not belong in this room as if the lady of the house may walk in at any moment and catch her, but Sansa’s feet could not move as she took in the splendor of the room. Sansa knew she should leave, but when her brain finally willed those stubborn feet, they took her to the dressing room instead of the hallway. It was larger than her entire room in Riverrun, Sansa sighed sadly. Dressed in the same colours at the bedroom, it held a vast vanity on one wall while the rest lay empty waiting for the wardrobe of the new Marchioness.

Sansa felt a twinge of jealousy. Her own mother, _a duchess_ , never had a room as grand as this. Walking back into the bedchamber, Sansa noticed two separate doors on the opposite wall. One had to be the connecting door to the marquess’ rooms, and the other was a mystery. Hoping Lord Baelish was still in his study; Sansa moved to the first door and found it locked. The second door of the other side of the bed opened, and Sansa poked her head inside with wonder.

It was a private bath with a massive copper tub trimmed in painted porcelain. There was a strange warmth in here that left a hint of condensation on the smooth white marble, and yet the fireplace was not lit. The tub had a fixture next to it and a pipe that cut into the marble floor leading to the wall by the window. Sansa studied the oddity and deduced it was meant to drain the water out, which would explain the pipes that she thought led up to the second floor.

“Rather ingenious, isn’t it?” a voice behind drawled making Sansa scream.

Lord Baelish grinned as he leaned against the doorway leading to his bedchamber. Sansa was caught red-handed in a place she knew she was never meant to pry. She could not form a single word in her defense as she stood frozen next to the bathing tub.

“It amazes me how far behind the times we are in this damned country,” he mused as he slowly walked towards her. “Romans had sophisticated aqueducts and baths long before our purported superiority and we’re just now catching up. I’ve invested quite a bit in the new powers of steam, much to the ridicule from many lords in the ton. Alas, I have clean and heated water while they are still using wells and chamber pots.”

Sansa did not know what to say. Lord Baelish didn’t appear to be upset she had entered his private chambers without consent and continued as if he had taken her on a tour of the house all along.

“This is the only bath with water that can be pumped in. See the handle here?” he pointed to the fixture with pride of this modern amenity. “Saves the time of having to lug up buckets of water. This valve here drains it to a pipe just outside. However, this is something every man… _and lady_ … should have in this day and age.”

Sansa relaxed a little and tried not to laugh at a man so proud of his bath and followed him to an odd corner of the room that looked like a wardrobe. He opened the door, and Sansa smirked.

“It’s… a privy,” she said in confusion. It was polished wood with a porcelain basin with an odd hole in the bottom, but a privy all the same.

“Yes and no. It’s called a water closet. Ah, but do you smell that?” he grinned like a boy with a new toy.

“Smell what?” This was the strangest conversation she ever had in her life.

“Exactly,” he grinned and pulled a long cord and a rush of water drained in the basin down the pipe. “Never could stand the smell of shite. I had my townhouse in Kings Landing fitted with one of these a year ago. How anyone can abide an old privy is mad. The stench in that city is bad enough. Now with these modern boilers, plumbing, steam engines, that a northerner invented, I might add, one can alleviate illnesses with better sanitation, not to mention the uses in industry…”

At any other time, Sansa might have been impressed with modern advances, especially after having to share a privy with several boys in Winterfell. However, being in such a private room with this man was too much. Sansa was still raised a lady, and it was inappropriate for her to be here at all let alone with a man.

“I apologize, my lord. It’s inexcusable of me to pry into your private chambers,” she muttered with eyes cast down. 

Sansa should have remained silent for the marquess would have continued rambling on about modern science and most likely forgotten she had intruded into his privacy. Now, he was quiet and observing her in that odd way of his. Sansa cursed herself for drawing his attention to her.

“I assume you have _toured_ the rest of the house?” he smirked.

There was no point in lying, she thought. “Yes, my lord,” she answered.

“Good, saves me the time,” he said, walking past her into his future wife’s bedchamber as Sansa followed. “Now that you know where everything is, I gather you’ll have no trouble managing the house while I’m gone.”

Sansa stopped in her tracks by the vast windows overlooking the lake and labyrinth.

“Where are you going?”

She couldn’t disguise the fear in her voice.

“I’m inspecting the harvest and collecting taxes. The Riverlands have been in incompetent hands for too long,” he replied, turning towards her. “Many things need to be righted before winter sets in… before I head back to Kings Landing…”

“You’re leaving me here all winter?” Sansa said to herself more than to him.

Lord Baelish crossed the room and stood before her with a look of curiosity.

“I haven’t decided what I’m to do with you just yet.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arrière-pensée= an old french equivalent to "having second thoughts or reservations"


	6. Chapter 6

 

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Dinner was a quiet affair. Sansa focused all her energy on the plate of food and wine before her to avoid conversation with the man that watched her with a strange curiosity. The footman refilled her glass several times, and occasionally the marquess would raise his eyebrows in silent questioning. Sansa did not care what he thought. It had been a long time she had a decent wine and rather felt like indulging for once. Perhaps being tipsy would lessen her frustration at being here with him.

Lord Baelish was leaving the following morning and expected to be gone for at least a fortnight, he told her. Sansa would be left to her own devices in this enormous house, and she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that. She didn’t have the confidence to manage a household such as this. How her mother ran Winterfell was a hazy memory at best, and Sansa tried to draw from her time at The Eyrie however vowing never to behave like her aunt. Mrs. Ames seemed very pleasant and accommodating, but having to deal with Duncan, rattled Sansa’s nerves. She very much needed to focus on something, anything else.

“Am I allowed to go riding, or are you worried that I may steal a horse and fly back to Riverrun?” she asked, pushing a piece of asparagus around on her plate.

Baelish smiled sardonically, “I don’t doubt your willfulness.” He sipped his wine, observing her over the rim of the crystal. “I’m betting that you won’t.”

“How much are you willing to lose?” she fired back softly.

He chuckled at that and seemed to enjoy their battle of wits.

“I never lose, my dear,” he mused and stood up, placing his serviette on the table. “Although please, prove me wrong. I would enjoy it immensely. Ride if it pleases you. Be careful of the woods; I hear they are haunted with ghosts and goblins.”

Lord Baelish walked behind Sansa’s chair, pulling it out for her to stand. She thought he was going to bid her goodnight when instead, he took her arm and led her into the library where a roaring fire crackled in its warmth.

Sansa picked up her book from where she left it that afternoon and made herself cozy on the sofa when she saw Baelish pour a brandy and relax into a leather chair nearer to the fireplace as he opened the widely published news periodicals. The post had come that afternoon from town with a bundle for the marquess which seemed to occupy his time in his study as she wandered his grand house.

Lord Baelish didn’t offer her a nightcap, and Sansa felt as though he had judged her on how much wine she drank at dinner. Rising subtly, Sansa crossed to the sideboard pouring a small glass of sherry.

“I think you’ve had more than enough this evening,” he chided lightly from behind his paper.

“You know nothing about me. I can hold my drink,” Sansa retorted with the same tone and returned to her spot on the divan.

“I don’t know which would be worse to bear,” he drawled, “that you would pick up bad habits from Edmure… or your aunt.”

The scent of a cigar drifted across the room, making Sansa wrinkle her nose. Her father and brother smoked, and she always detested the smell.

“Does it bother you, sweetling?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the paper.

“No,” she lied.

“You’ll have to give more effort to lying if you’re going to live around me,” he mused after a moment snuffing out the tobacco.

Sansa raised her book to cover her smile. How strange it was to smile, considering her situation. There were moments when the marquess was tolerable in his swift wit and determination to ruffle her feathers. It didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest when she attempted to toss it right back at him. Sansa wondered if he spoke to everyone in this manner.

“Are there any particular instructions you would like me to follow in your absence, my lord?” Sansa asked, changing the subject quickly and then smirked, “That is if I haven’t run off after you leave and set fire to the place.”

The moment the words fell from her mouth, Sansa was left mortified. Was she actually flirting with him? Sansa cursed herself immediately. Too long, had she been able to speak freely with Mrs. Cole and her uncle without any thought of upholding decorum or fearing retribution as it had been with her Aunt Lysa. Harrenhal was not her home, and Sansa could hear her mother’s voice warning her.

Her blue eyes nervously darted over to see his paper fold down partially as a pair of green eyes stared back, filled with mirth.

Sansa couldn’t hold his gaze even though it only lasted for a moment. Abruptly, he flicked up the newspaper, but she swore that he was smiling behind it.

“I knew I should have left that painting in my townhouse. Such a waste,” Sansa could hear a peal of slight laughter in the marquess’ voice.

What was happening here? Was Lord Baelish trying to make her soften to him, or was she enjoying bantering with him? Sansa focused on her book, but his presence was overwhelming as he sat quietly reading by the fire. Uncle Edmure wasn’t much of a conversationalist, even in his rare moments of sobriety and spending time with Mrs. Cole was different entirely. Being in the company of someone new, especially a gentleman, after so long was a bit refreshing.

_He is the reason Aunt Lysa cast you out. He is the reason you are here against your will._

_Yes_ , Sansa convinced herself. _You are not supposed to like him_.

This man is a cheat and a liar. Lord Baelish was a known smuggler, profiteer off her father’s rebellion and advisor to the king she loathed. Sansa had every right to hate him. He could dress her up in new fashions and hold her up in a beautiful house, but it was still nothing more than a prison.

She downed the sherry and ignored him with her book.

It must have been late, for Sansa thought she had read the same paragraph several times over. Her eyes were heavy and blinked tiredly. Too much wine at dinner, that’s what it was. More so, she should not have drunk the sherry either. Uncle Edmure was soused almost every night while Sansa chose not to imbibe to have one sober person in the household besides Mrs. Cole. It seemed that Sansa could not hold her drink after all, and the effects of the wine had taken its hold quickly.

Sansa wasn’t sure when she dozed off on the sofa with the book resting on her lap. She didn’t quite hear her name when the man lightly shook her shoulder before pulling her up. Her head was light and fuzzy, and her feet refused to obey at all. It was as though the last few days had finally caught up with her.  All Sansa wanted was her bed and to never leave it again.

“Papa, may I please stay up a little longer?” she whimpered and rested her head on her father’s strong shoulder.

He chuckled softly, lifting her into his arms. “No my darling, it’s bedtime for you.”

Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck as he carried her upstairs. Arya never liked Father to coddle her even when she was very little. Sansa, however, loved it when Father would let her sit on his lap or give her kisses. Sansa hoped she could find a man as good as him. He was a wonderful man and loved her mother, dearly.

As her body was laid down on the feather bed, Sansa refused to let her arms go from around his neck.

“Promise me…” she muttered.

“Anything, sweetling,” he murmured in reply.

“Don’t me leave again… I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Hands gently peeled her arms away and pulled up the bedclothes. Sansa could feel tender fingers caress her face when lips met her forehead. Warm breath that smelled of mint and brandy was not her father’s and lingered near her face as she fell deeper into that sweet sleep.

“Oh, sweet girl, what am I to do with you?”

 

* * *

 

  Her head was pounding when she woke. Never again, Sansa promised herself, that she would ever drink that much ever again. It must have been late morning judging by the light from her windows as she pushed herself from the soft bed and a little knock sounded on her door.

“Come in,” she groaned, as one of the maids entered with a tray.

“Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady. Mrs. Ames told me to come and wake you,” the shy girl said, placing the tray down on the table.

“What is the time?”

“Oh, nearly noon, miss,” the maid spoke, setting up the breakfast.

Noon? Heavens, she never slept this late unless in bed with illness. Sansa tied her dressing gown around her waist and sat down, gazing at the bread and fruits with relief. She would never have been able to stomach porridge this morning. The tea was hot and soothing, and Sansa debated whether to stay in her room today.

“Mrs. Ames said if you’re feelin’ up to it, that she would like to go over some of the household needs this afternoon and Mr. Duncan, wanted to speak with you as well,” the girl added timidly as if waiting to be scolded by her new mistress.

Sansa sighed, “Very well. Tell them I will see to them in an hour.”

Another maid came later to help her dress, as Sansa decided to meet with Duncan first.

Might as well get the worst part over with first, she thought while descending the stairs. Sansa spotted the butler with two footmen and waited patiently. Duncan knew she was there, and yet he kept her purposefully waiting. She couldn’t imagine Aunt Lysa waiting for any servant; however, Sansa held her tongue.

The old majordomo gave his orders and finally turned to his new and very young mistress with a grim expression.

Sansa held her chin up and straightened her spine, trying desperately to channel her mother’s posture.

“You wished to speak with me?” she spoke with a voice not entirely her own.

Duncan smirked, “Yes. Lord Baelish left instructions for you in his study. He will return in a fortnight and told me that the tailor is expected around that time with your new wardrobe from Kings Landing. He would like you to make use of his absence in the education of managing your new home.”

Not once did he address her as lady or as his superior in any way, but Sansa decided to let it go for now. Duncan, it seemed, was not going to let his power go easily or quickly, especially to a woman thrice his junior.

“I’m quite well read on Harrenhal, Duncan, thank you,” Sansa began, “And you needn’t worry yourself about the handling of his lordship’s affairs of the estate. My mother and aunt were excellent tutors, both duchesses from great houses. I’m sure it will be no time at all before I have a firm grasp of the needs of… _my new home_ , as you so put it. I trust that all the staff will aid me in my role here. If there are any misrepresentations of Lord Baelish’s directions given to me… well, I will speak to him when he returns home. Surely, he expects, as do I, the complete cooperation of the household.”

Sansa smiled as if she had won a small battle. Lord Baelish expected her to take charge of his house, and so she shall. She wouldn’t allow this coarse old man to walk all over her. The butler looked her up and down in her worn dress and smiled back, but it was far from pleasant and enough to chip away at her newly won satisfaction.

“My lady, I think we both know why you are here. I am not as ignorant of the marquess as you seem to be,” he smirked again. “The daughter of a northern traitor is no lady no matter what titles they possess. Learn what you can, for it will be of little use. I expect you’ll be on your way before spring… once he tires of you.”

Sansa was speechless. Never in her life had a servant been so openly rude and disrespectful to her. She had her share of snickers and hateful gossip at the Eyrie along with lewd gapes from men in the county, but it was something she always swept under the rug. This man that should be following her orders, clearly was never going to accept her as anything other than some plaything his lordship drug home one day.

“You assume too much,” Sansa mustered drawing on some courage, “You should be wary of northerners. We’re a strong sort than the weak folk of the Riverlands. You would never survive a day in Winterfell. As for _Lord Petyr_ , I think he will be interested to know how kind you have been to me in his absence.”

Sansa turned on her heel and didn’t give the man a chance to retort. She was scared of him but dared not to show it. When entering the kitchens, Sansa took a deep sigh of relief. It was going to be a long two weeks with that man and wished for Lord Baelish’s speedy return.

“How’s your head, my dear?” a kindly voice echoed behind Sansa.

Mrs. Ames had a basket of potatoes that seemed far too heavy for a woman her age to carry.

“I’ll not touch of a drop of wine for a week,” Sansa smiled, feeling entirely at ease with the woman.

“Good taste, his lordship has,” she laughed. “Too good to stop at one glass, I wager.”

“Yes,” Sansa laughed softly.

She liked Mrs. Ames very much. The thin, older woman was half the size of Mrs. Cole but full of the same sharp spirit that made living at Riverrun bearable. The kitchen was warm and inviting as Sansa sat with the female servants making bread as others peeled potatoes. The girls seemed a bit shocked when Sansa pushed up her sleeves and started kneading the dough with practiced hands.

Being raised a lady with all the proper teachings, Sansa still loved to spend time in the kitchens at Winterfell mainly for the scent of fresh bread and the warmth during colder days. The kitchens were always alive with chatter and laughter from the women that worked there. In Riverrun, it was a welcome distraction to the dreariness of the endless days with not a soul to talk to.

If anything were going to make her stay at Harrenhal pleasant, it would be to have a good rapport with the female staff of the house. There was always nasty talk of her Aunt Lysa at the Eyrie and for good measure. The Duchess of the Vale was not a kind woman in any sense of the word except to her only son.

Her mother, Lady Stark, was respected amongst the household and the small folk. She was a generous and kind woman and never treated the servants poorly. Her daughter wasn’t afraid to roll up her sleeves. Winterfell wasn’t as grand as Harrenhal, but Sansa wanted to emulate a kind and fair mistress as her mother had been. Catching the busy bees with honey would be an easier task than that of the sour, old butler.

Time flew by, yet when Sansa sat for dinner, the mood had changed drastically. Suddenly, the house was cold and quiet as the servants went about their duties for the new mistress of the house. There was no conversations to be had, and Sansa wondered how frequently Lord Baelish took his supper upstairs.

The night was lonelier still as she sat in the library reading in his chair by the fire. Sansa had only met the man a few days ago, and oddly, she already missed his company, whatever it was. This house was too large for one girl all alone. Sansa understood why he was leaving to Kings Landing before the snows came. To be stuck here alone all winter would be maddening, she thought.

The idea was depressing because it was precisely what was going to happen to her. Sansa looked around the library and wondered how many days it would take for her to read every tome on his shelves before she lost her mind. The light-hearted bantering from the kitchens that afternoon warmed her a little. Yes, Mrs. Ames and the servant girls were lovely. She could spend time with them. It was the endurance of lonely nights until…

_Until what? Until he returns to spend a week or two and leave you again?_

Sansa shrugged off that voice inside her head. She had a grand home, warm bed, and at least a few friendly people to help fill her days. What else did she need? Sansa should be so lucky. If either her uncle or aunt had refused to take her after the executions…

 _Well_ , she thought, _I could be worse off._

If Lord Baelish were true to his word and made her mistress of the household, Sansa wouldn’t have to care for a drunken uncle every day at least. If his lordship rarely visited Harrenhal, she could do as she pleased for the most part. It didn’t have to be as bad as it appreared, Sansa tried to convince herself.

A footman lit the way up the stairs, and the place was quiet as the dead. It wasn’t long this time before Sansa fell asleep. No whispers, nor ghostly music drifted up from downstairs, just peace. Closing her eyes, Sansa began to resign herself to her new situation. If she could deal with Aunt Lysa and Uncle Edmure, she could handle the Marquess of Harrenhal.

The days began to pass as Sansa grew accustomed to the ways of the grand house. She was grateful for the skills learned from her family, and the tasks became more relaxed each day. Sansa spent most of her time with Mrs. Ames and the female servants, ignoring Duncan’s disapproving eyes on her. Only once did he bark at her when she wandered too close to the massive labyrinth behind the house. It was forbidden, Lord Baelish said.

 _Stay clear of the labyrinth_ , Lady Sansa. _It is quite dangerous_.

Sansa stood in front of the grand archway leading into the maze. The hedges were taller than she estimated and in need of pruning. The greenery looked as though gardeners hadn’t touched it in many years. Overgrown and full of weeds, she peered through the opening that only showed a long corridor.

Why would it be dangerous? Dangerous of getting lost for hours, perhaps, but Sansa always loved puzzles and games. The overgrowth couldn’t possibly be that treacherous, but as instructed, Sansa didn’t attempt any further. Lord Baelish would surely hear that she disobeyed his command.

It appeared with all the other groundwork; they didn’t have any time for the labyrinth before winter. It must have been built long before the marquess had taken ownership, she surmised. Maybe by spring, if she was still here, she could ask for the groundskeepers to fix it up as it once was. It must have been impressive back in the day. Sansa imagined giddy lords and ladies trying to find their way out on a sunny afternoon, stealing kisses in the shadows.

Once again, dinner was lonely and quiet. Sansa could hear a hint of laughter and chatter and knew some of the servants were probably eating in the kitchens past the pantry. Several dreary minutes passed, and she heard it again. Setting down her utensils, Sansa made a decision. Quietly, she picked up her plate and wine glass while shushing the footman as he tried to take it from her.

Sansa pushed open the pantry door, and the chatter died instantly as a few of the footmen stood up in shock.

“Please, sit,” Sansa commanded sweetly. Surprised eyes stared at her dumbfounded as to why the mistress of the house was in the kitchen instead of the ornate dining room. “I don’t believe I can stand another supper in that room by myself. May I join you?”

Mrs. Ames smiled widely while a few of the maids giggled, but the men didn’t seem to know how to act. Sansa spied Duncan across the room with a scowl on his face as she sat down in an empty chair just to spite him. One of the young footmen helped scoot her chair in before glancing at the old butler as if waiting for him to object.

The awkward silence persisted for a few minutes, and Sansa knew she needed to break the ice a little. Clearly, this was something they were not prepared for at all.

“So, I’m curious, what’s to be done with the labyrinth?” Sansa smiled, taking a bite of chicken.

No one spoke as she looked around the table.

A young man cleared his throat, nervously, “His lordship plans to have it torn down in the spring, m’ lady.”

“Oh?” she smiled again, attempting to make conversation. “It seems more work to do that than maintain it. I’ve never seen one before. Not that large anyhow.”

“The Mad King built it many years ago. Long before the late Duke Baratheon owned the estate,” Mrs. Ames jumped in. “It hasn’t been used since, if memory serves. Is that so, Duncan?” she called over her shoulder.

“His lordship has forbidden anyone to use the labyrinth for their safety,” Duncan rattled from the corner of the room by the hearth. “I will inform him if his wishes are not obeyed.”

Eyes traveled from the majordomo to the new mistress in questioning.

“Well, I shall speak to Lord Baelish about it upon his return,” Sansa goaded drinking from her glass with a smirk. “It’s rather cold this time of year to be wandering about in such a thing. Oh, Duncan? Would you be so kind as to have the fire lit in the study? I wish to use it this evening.”

The man grumbled in his corner and after a few minutes, pushed his plate aside and left the kitchen glaring at Sansa. The moment he left, a heavy weight lifted in the room and one by one, the servants began to comfortably chitchat as Sansa caught a smile from the housekeeper across the long table.

The study was warm and inviting, and Sansa suspected that Lord Baelish spent a great deal of time in this room. Ledgers, figures, and stacks of paperwork that dealt with the many properties along the Riverlands littered the desk. Glancing through a few piles, Sansa learned it was true, that the marquess hadn’t lied about the disarray of the lands. It seemed that Lord Petyr had spent a good portion of the past year trying to rectify the region. This harvest wouldn’t be prosperous due to the heavy rain, but it seemed the new Lord Paramount had substantial plans for the next year. The Riverlands were known as the most fertile lands in Westeros and for it to fall into such decline was more to do with poor management than just poor weather. Uncle Edmure was so deep in his cups that he probably didn’t have the slightest clue or care what was happening.

Sansa spied a letter in her aunt’s penmanship. It was weeks old, and she was sending Lord Baelish grain and some supplies from the Vale for the winter. Sansa scowled. Her aunt would send this man aid but refused when her own sister begged for help during the rebellion. Sansa skimmed the letter and read that Aunt Lysa invited him to the Eyrie for the winter. What was the relationship between her aunt and this man? The duchess threw Sansa out because of him and one dance well over a year ago.

Sansa pulled out the letter he left her that morning and reread it. It wasn’t so much instructions but everything that Duncan had already told her. Lord Baelish had sent word to Kings Landing to Madame Berkins demanding priority on her new wardrobe. Mr. Wiltshire would handle the fittings upon arrival in Lord Holloway’s Town. Sansa didn’t know how many seamstresses worked for this woman but to have a full wardrobe in such a short time was surely costing him. Sansa frowned and pushed the papers aside. There was nothing or of notable interest in his study. Nothing that he had not deemed more important to lock away, it seemed.

Moving to stand, a bit of tattered lace caught on the wood of his desk and Sansa heard it tear. She bent down to unhook it and saw a crumpled piece of parchment under the desk. The servants must not have seen it while cleaning. She picked it up and unraveled it.

_Lady Myranda of House Royce?_

Her handwriting was perfect in its elegance. Sansa wondered why an unmarried lady would write to a man if she were not betrothed or already engaged to him. Evidently, her father, Lord Royce would be the one to correspond with another noble gentleman in her stead.

Sansa knew she should not read something so personal, but she couldn’t help herself. Besides, the letter couldn’t have been that important since Sansa found it crumpled under his desk. Seemingly, he meant to toss it away.

Lady Myranda wrote of missing him since Lord Petyr left the Vale. Her manner was coy and of light playfulness. She was flirting with him, Sansa laughed. The woman made it visible enough, even to an obtuse man. She was spending the winter in Kings Landing and hoped to see him, she wrote.

Sansa leaned back in the chair and thought back to that night of Aunt Lysa’s dreadful ball. Could Lord Baelish have designs to marry Lady Myranda? She was of a proper family but not a lady so high up in society to snub her nose at the new and scandalous marquess. The ton was a pretentious lot. It wasn’t so much as just being a part of the peerage but your social standing and money. However, the “new coppers,” the cruel term coined amongst aristocrats, were still not as socially acceptable as old family affluence and heritage. Lord Baelish was possibly wealthier than most of the ton, Sansa deduced, but even his new title stilted him from making a good match.

Lord Royce was an earl from the Vale, but far from wealthy. His family was old but marrying his daughter to the Marquess of Harrenhal _and_ Lord Paramount was a considerable step up. He probably set quite the dowry for his daughter knowing of the Baelish’s assets. It would give the new lord more social standing, marrying into an old and respectable family.

Sansa smiled to herself. They probably deserved each other, she tittered. Sansa thought Myranda was sweet when they first met at the Eyrie. The brunette was more experienced with men and told many tales that made Sansa’s cheeks flush scarlet. Myranda was convinced she would marry well even when Lord Harrold cast her aside amidst the rumors of her wanton ways. It didn’t surprise Sansa that she would set her sights on the Lord of Harrenhal. Baelish was older, yes, but Sansa had to admit, he wasn’t ugly or unattractive.

She sighed and tossed the letter on the fire. Perhaps Duncan was right in a way. After he wintered in Kings Landing, Lord Baelish could most certainly return to Harrenhal with a new bride on his arm and Sansa would likely be sent away or work for them indefinitely. The idea of being a servant to Myranda made Sansa grimace. She would rather work for another family as a governess than let that insufferable girl gloat and order Sansa around while watching their horrid children.

Sansa lit a candle and left his study. She was about to retire to her bedroom when she stood to staring at the double doors across the hallway. It was late, as she glanced down the corridor. The servants would be readying for bed. She knew she shouldn’t, but Sansa just read a letter that was none of her business a moment ago. Unlike the day Lord Baelish discovered her in his master bath, tonight, he was not in the house. Pausing in front of the doors, she touched the latch expecting it to be locked, yet it moved freely.

In the candlelight, Sansa opened the door and quickly stepped inside afraid that a servant or Duncan might see her. The room smelled like it belonged to a man. Hints of cologne, cognac and cigars were subtle, and the décor was a contrast to his future wife’s chambers next door. Dark mahogany, emerald green, while gold and silver glimmered in the faint light as she walked around his room. Every fiber of her being said she shouldn’t be in here, but Sansa couldn’t help the curiosity about his bedroom.

In every way, it was distinctly him. Very masculine but refined and elegant. Even without a fire lit, this room had a strange warmth to it. Sansa had noticed it in the next room and the bath chamber as well that day he caught her wandering and couldn’t figure out where it was coming from... just as the marble floor in the music room.

His dressing room was immaculate and tidy. Nervously, Sansa kept looking behind her expecting to find him staring quietly, but only a gloomy silence greeted her. A dressing table held his grooming items and a curious gilded box that did not look like it belonged in a man’s room. It was delicate and quite feminine as her fingers brushed against the carvings. Lifting the lid, music filled the darkness making Sansa yelp in surprise. Why would a man such as him have a music box? He was a strange man, this marquess. Even more bizarre, the tune sounded familiar, but Sansa couldn’t place it at all. Afraid someone might hear, Sansa closed the lid and decided it was better to leave his room before someone did encounter her snooping around.

Her hand was on the latch of the door when suddenly the tinkle of the sweet tune came from his dressing room freezing Sansa in terror. She was alone, wasn’t she? She would have known if his lordship returned. No, surely, it wasn’t Lord Baelish playing a mean trick for sneaking in his rooms.

“ _My lord?_ ” she whispered.

Suddenly the music stopped, and Sansa did not wait for a reply. She ran out and down the hallway to her own room as the flame blew out. Turning around briefly, she saw a faint reddish glow come from his door before it slammed shut into obscurity.

 

* * *

 

  Sansa never mentioned that night, nor was she questioned about the marquess’ room or anything amiss. She did not use his study again or even go near that corridor of the east wing. In Lord Baelish’s absence, someone or something was in that room with her.

_I don’t think they like his lordship. Ever since he came, we hear them more and more._

Surprisingly, the week passed by smoothly. Sansa filled her time with Mrs. Ames and chores around the house. She instructed particular paintings moved and furniture adjusted to suit the décor of the rooms. If Lord Baelish didn’t like it, he could order them all back. He may have taste, but so did Sansa. The marquess left her in charge, and she was going to make good use of it while she could. At least Sansa could be artistic with decorating his home. Aunt Lysa had a wretched and gaudy style, and in contrast, her mother was more subtle and sophisticated. Harrenhal was indeed beautiful, and the marquess had an eye for detail and beauty, but somehow it needed a woman’s touch, Sansa smiled.

Every night she dined with the staff in the kitchen and enjoyed their companionship. Duncan took to eating early, avoiding her as much as possible, and that was fine by Sansa. The less she had to deal with the old majordomo, the better.

With construction finished in the west wing, fitting the rooms with furniture and last details, finally made the entire house felt alive. Sansa inspected the finishing touches and by midweek was pleased that everything would be to the marquess’ liking and prepared for guests.

The next day, Lord Baelish was expected to return while Sansa helped Mrs. Ames in the greenhouse during the afternoon. The woman was a true apothecary. So many of the herbs and plants were medicinal, as Sansa noted several species only grew in the north. Mrs. Ames’ book contained remedies and recipes that would be scorned by most modern physicians. Many northern women were healers and revered for their knowledge.

The fear of the old ways and witchcraft practically destroyed the rituals and beliefs the common people held for ages. Even as the new religion grew across the land for generations, the north still clung to the old ways in secret. Thankfully, Duncan never entered the greenhouse, and Sansa found it a welcome sanctuary from his disapproving glares. He seemed more superstitious than anyone else in the household. A pious man that held such an open disgust for anything that wasn’t righteous in his eyes.

One of the footmen entered, explaining that the tailor from Lord Holloway’s Town had arrived. A new wardrobe, the marquess had promised, and it made the girl inside her giddy with excitement. Sansa’s one presentable dress made her weak to the idea of new clothes despite that they came from a man she disliked. The finer things in Harrenhal reminded her too much of the better days when Sansa only knew of refinement. She had been spoiled in her surroundings to deny herself fashionable clothes that were not ill-fitting, faded and old.

In the foyer, footmen carried several trunks as a smiling Mr. Wiltshire, and his wife took in the grandeur of Harrenhal.

“Ah! Lady Baelish! Good to see you again, my dear,” the tailor beamed and Sansa blushed.

_Lady Baelish?_

Sansa didn’t remember how the marquess introduced her that day in the man’s shop, however, she certainly would have remembered if he referred to her as the lady of the house.

_My lady… the Lady Sansa…_

She couldn’t fault the tailor’s mistake. He probably assumed that the woman traveling with him was his wife or intended.

“Lady Sansa, please,” she smiled at the man.

“Of course, my lady, of course,” Wiltshire bowed taking her hand. “I think you’ll be very pleased. Very pleased, indeed! Finest quality. Madame Berkins is the best in Kings Landing. Lord Baelish will be happy with his purchases for you, my dear.”

Sansa couldn’t help the flush of her cheeks at the constant reminder of who was buying everything for her and that he spared no expense.

“His lordship is away but expected to return on the morrow. I’m sure everything is lovely,” Sansa praised.

“Well, what a vision he will see upon his return home. For that’s what you will be, my lady — a vision! Come let’s have these lovely frocks fitted properly,” the tailor smiled.

The afternoon was a whirlwind of giggling maids swooning over the beautiful dresses and accessories as Sansa tried on garment after garment. She felt like a princess in a fairytale each time she gazed in the mirror. Lord Baelish had excellent taste; there was no denying it. Sansa found it strange and unnerving that he knew fashion so well, and that he knew ladies’ apparel in such detail that everything was made for her and her alone. Delicate muslin, silks, satins, and lace were the most exquisite Sansa had ever touched. Only the wealthiest of the royal family wore such finery. Lord Baelish must have spent a fortune not to mention that the tailors probably devoted all their time to his order. The marquess must be a good patron indeed to forego other customers for him in such a short time.

How would it have been to have a season with dresses such as these? Sadly, Sansa thought that her father, a duke, probably could not have afforded such things for his eldest daughter. A wave of melancholy rushed over her as hands poked and prodded, hemmed and pinned as she stood in front of the mirror. Sansa should not be enjoying herself. She was only here, in this house, because her family was dead and buried. Now, she was dressed up as a fashion plate for a man she knew nothing about. The woman that gazed back in the mirror wasn’t her. It was a kept woman in beautiful clothes, but a kept woman all the same.

By six o’clock, the fervor died, and Sansa sat in her bedroom littered with all the pretty things he bought for her. Two of the maids had finished putting her clothing away as others found places for everything else. Her bedroom wasn’t large enough for the multitude of her new possessions.

If she left, would all of it still belong to her, Sansa wondered?

It was almost time for supper when she drifted down the stairs in her new gown of sky blue silk and lace. It was strange, wearing elegant clothing again. The corset was a little too tight. Sansa would need to remind the maid next time she dressed. The rustle of the soft muslin and silks around her was intoxicating as were the satin slippers and silky stockings that didn’t fall down her legs. She had forgotten what a lady wore.

Supper wasn’t ready for another half an hour, and Sansa was restless. Should she sup in the kitchen again now that she looked a proper lady or would Mrs. Ames insist she dine formally? Sansa sighed as she passed by the dining room and saw the footmen setting the table, answering her question.

At Winterfell and even the Eyrie she never really dined utterly alone. There was always someone there. Here, she was the lone lady of the house. Sansa strolled around and saw lights in the ballroom. The construction wasn’t complete when she first arrived at Harrenhal. At last, all the chandeliers had been cleaned and hung. The mirrors on the walls and the polished parquet floors gleamed in the empty room.

Her satin slippers tapped lightly on the floor as the flow of silk followed ever so slightly. Sansa caught her reflection in one of the mirrors and stood dumbfounded. The maid had pinned up her hair with a couple of new pearl combs. However, a few stubborn curls refused to stay put, framing her face lightly.

Sansa hardly recognized herself. It had been so long since she resembled or felt like a proper lady again. Picking up the folds of her skirt, Sansa’s reflection curtsied, and many of the old mannerisms came back. She closed her eyes and remembered her first ball at Winterfell. She barely had a moment to rest, for she was dancing all night. It was before her betrothal to Joffrey and the whole mess that began after King Robert died so unexpectedly.

She could hear the music and see the twirling of couples on the floor. Dances changed from reels to minuets and the newly popular waltz. Sansa loved the waltz best because you were so close to the man and didn’t have to change partners. The only problem was if the man couldn’t dance well, a lady’s toes suffered for it.

Before she knew it, her feet were moving in time and felt the sway of her skirts. Sansa pretended a handsome young gentleman whirled her across the floor in his arms at the envy of all the spiteful ladies of the ton. This time they didn’t giggle or make fun of the northern girl as the wallflower, but at how beautiful she was in her stunning dress as she flowed with the music.

Sansa could feel his hand holding hers every so lightly as the other held her small waist and guided her around the floor. She never wanted the daydream to end. The looks on their faces, the sound of the music, the scent of mint…

Her eyes popped open to see green orbs smiling vibrantly.

“Oh!”

Startled, Sansa stepped on Lord Baelish’s foot, freezing in his arms. How long had she been dancing with him? How long had been watching her? She could feel her cheeks flush crimson and did not know what to do for he was still holding her.

“It’s much better with a partner, don’t you agree?” he teased lightly, his eyes filled with levity.

Her hands dropped from his as Lord Baelish released her but not stepping away.

“You weren’t expected until tomorrow,” she flustered not able to meet his eyes. “How long have you been watching me?”

He chuckled softly, “And here I half expected a warm welcome home.”

The floor became overwhelmingly compelling as she muttered, “Welcome home, my lord.”

His boots stepped back, and Sansa finally raised her head.

“I see you’ve made some changes in several rooms while I was away,” the marquess spoke with a hint of praise as he ambled around the ballroom.

“If you don’t like it…”

“Oh, I do. Our tastes are very similar, I believe,” he smiled, and his eyes twinkled a little. “Then I saw a light in this room and alas there you were… looking very lovely, I might add.”

Her cheeks burned again at the thought of him watching her dance to her own music.

“I knew that color would suit you. You float like an angel, but even an angel shouldn’t dance without a partner,” he grinned, taking her in from head to toe.

Slowly, Baelish strode towards her with a gleam in his eyes and Sansa’s feet rooted to the spot.

Retaking her hand and sliding the other around her waist, the man leaned next to her ear and whispered, “Where did you learn the waltz so gracefully?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa lied. She knew exactly who taught her that night.

“Such sweet lies fall from those rosy lips,” he murmured as he took a few steps in the silence of the massive ballroom.

“There isn’t any music,” Sansa said stupidly.

“It didn’t stop you a moment ago,” the man smiled again, leading her gently. “It’s all counting, though, isn’t it? One, two, three…”

It wasn’t all counting; she wanted to say. Sansa danced with enough young men to know that they could count all they liked, and her toes still hurt in the end. Some people had rhythm and natural grace for dancing, and others did not.

Lord Baelish had finesse in spades as he glided her around. He seemed to be tuned to a piece of music only he could hear. Dancing came freely to him, Sansa noted. In fact, his simple moves and gestures since she met him a few weeks ago seemed to have their own elegance. He was always immaculately dressed, and even though he was cynical and harsh, there was beauty in his manner. Lord Baelish was very graceful but not in a foppish way some gentlemen exaggerated a bow or in their speech.

The marquess spoke frankly and could even make an insult sound light and airy as if it were a compliment. He was intelligent, worldly but didn’t let privilege blind him. Coming from a lesser family of the ton, gave him a unique view of both worlds. He knew how the other half lived and how to use it to his advantage, she presumed.

Dancing with him though, any woman would believe he never spent a day outside the life of the aristocracy. Without a shred of music, he was a better dancer than any man Sansa had ever partnered. For a moment, she let herself get lost in the movements as in her daydream only moments before. Sansa didn’t know why, but the faint twinkling tune of the music box rang in her head, and she couldn’t understand why.

Suddenly, everything stopped, and Sansa could feel his breath on her cheek. His face was so close when she opened her eyes, her chest constricted. Fine lines marked his skin along his forehead and eyes showing a hint of his age. His eyes appeared a darker green as he regarded her in such a way that made her tummy flutter. The hand that held hers drew it closer to his chest.

Sansa knew she should pull away yet that look kept her grounded in wonder. It had been a long time since any man looked at her with a hint of desire. For years, Sansa had only young Robert or her uncle for male company. Now, here she was in the arms of an unfamiliar man. One, that was wealthy, powerful, and oddly attractive in his way despite their age difference. The young men Sansa had known didn’t have the presence as the one that held her now. Lord Baelish had something that only seemed to come with age and experience.

Those half lidden eyes flittered down to her lips, and Sansa held her breath. She could detect the mint even more strongly as his mouth was a breath away from hers.

“Ahem,” a voice uttered from across the room. All at once, the moment was gone. “Excuse me, my lord, dinner is served, and John is preparing your room…”

The marquess stepped away with a constrained smile while his eyes darted away.

“Thank you, Duncan. I’m very weary. I’ll take my supper in my room this evening,” he spoke as if the butler had not caught them in each other’s arms.

Lord Baelish bowed charmingly and kissed her hand. He was going to kiss her lips before he was interrupted, Sansa was sure of it. Even more distressing, she didn’t know if she would have stopped him. What was happening here? Sansa was confused.

“Goodnight, sweetling,” he muttered softly. “Don’t drink too much wine tonight. I regret I’ll be asleep and not able to carry you to bed again.”

Baelish flashed a brilliant grin and left her speechless in the middle of the ballroom.

 

* * *

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

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Dim light streamed into the hallway coming from the direction of his study when Sansa walked to her bedchamber. He lied, she thought. He wasn’t asleep after all. She stayed up reading in the library hoping the marquess had indeed retired for the night as he said in the ballroom.

Sansa couldn’t stop thinking about the moment in the ballroom no matter how hard she tried. Alone in the dining room with nothing but those troubling thoughts for company and the book she had attempted to read for the last two hours had not helped at all in erasing it from her mind. She was so lost in her daydream that she hadn’t realized that Lord Petyr was dancing with her. He praised her skills during his absence and then took her in his arms again around the dance floor. She could have almost forgotten it was him. _Almost_.

It was the sudden intimacy that was so disconcerting. Never, since Sansa had met Lord Petyr a few weeks ago had he shown any real interest, no, _desire,_ for her as a woman. His taunts, goading and reprimands went with a grain of salt, but occasionally his wit and humour was pleasant companionship. Tonight he gazed at her from across the room with an appreciation and warmth that made her blush even now. Perhaps it had been the new clothes. Now, she actually looked like a gentlewoman and not a servant.

Sansa wasn’t stupid. She knew she was comely. She was always the pretty one, they said. The one that would make a good match – marry well. It was the eldest daughter that caught young men’s eyes. Arya never cared. Sansa believed her sister would have been happier had she been born a boy. She never cared for dresses, balls, music lessons, art or anything that Sansa fancied. Arya teased her relentlessly when their father announced that Sansa would wed Prince Joffrey.

Sansa was going to be a princess and move south to the capital, to the royal palace. Arya would never leave the north regardless if her sister were queen or not. She was right, Sansa thought sadly as she undressed and climbed into bed. None of them left the Winterfell. They were all there, except for her – the blood traitor to the king. The one that renounced her father’s rebellion, attempting to save herself and them from execution. Only in that horrible thunderstorm did the new king make her watch her family die before a firing squad, leaving Sansa alone in the world.

Not since Sansa’s first and only season at the age of six and ten had she felt a flutter in her stomach from the attention of men. It felt so long ago back when she had so many admirers. Her first kiss had been from a young man in the stables that she never told anyone about in fear of her father’s anger. Sansa was the eldest and meant for a good marriage as the daughter of a powerful duke. She could never have a man below her station her mother told her.

Many of the proposals she received that first month would not be accepted, and Sansa thought she could have been happy with some that called on her. When her parents sat her down and explained that she would be wed to the son of her father’s friend, Sansa was shocked that he meant the crown prince. Naively, she was excited. The young prince was rumored to be as handsome as so many of the Lannisters tended to be. He took after the Queen Mother it seemed, and Sansa knew her to be very beautiful.

The future king was handsome. However that’s where any beauty he had ended sharply. Prince Joffrey was cruel, and marriage to him would have been an inescapable hell. When the King Robert died, Sansa realized just how terrible her life was about to become. How could her father have given her so swiftly to such a horrible person?

To the kingdom’s astonishment, the king had named her father, the Duke of Winterfell, Regent even though Prince Joffrey was of age. Within days, a small rebellion broke out, forcing her father came back north to build his alliances. The new king wasn’t fit to rule was all her father ever said about it to his daughter. Ladies were never permitted when the men spoke of politics and business. All Sansa knew was relief that she would never have to marry that wretched boy, and once the rebellion was won, she could entertain suitors once again.

Sansa curled into her soft feather bed and sighed. She was so immature and stupid all those years ago. She thought for certain her father would be victorious. Only one southern earl joined with him and all the northern lords. They won several battles until reaching the Riverlands. Aunt Lysa and Uncle Edmure refused to fight against the crown when Lord Lannister, along with Lord Tyrell’s reinforcements from the west, blocked their path to the capital. Without support from the Riverlands or the Vale, her father was outnumbered with his supplies cut off from the sea and the north. The allied lords died in battle and her father taken prisoner.

Her mother cried for days when the news of defeat came. Prince Joffrey, along with the Lannister family, marched to Winterfell, hauling her gravely injured father behind. Joffrey threatened to have Sansa and her sister stripped and raped by his soldiers if they did not recant. Only the Queen Mother spoke out against defiling the young women. It wasn’t for Sansa and her sister’s benefit but that of her son’s image. Instead, he beat her and threatened a slow death. His most terrible cruelty was feigned kindness. She would still be his wife, his queen, he promised. He would spare her family if she would publicly renounce her father’s rebellion and swear fealty to him as king.

The terrible things he promised he would subject her family to were too much to bear. Lord Lannister wrote up a declaration that her trembling hand finally signed as Sansa cried at her own treachery to her beloved father. She thought she was saving them. Yes, she was a stupid and naïve girl then. She thought nothing could be as terrible and terrifying as death, but she was wrong.

Living in the aftermath was a far crueler punishment. Shunned by many northerners by betraying her father and loathed by the rest of soceity as a traitor’s daughter – Sansa was mud on their shoe. Being completely alone seemed more frightening and painful than the few minutes it would have been in front of the firing squad standing proudly with her family.

Tears rolled silently down her cheeks as she hugged her pillow. It was hard to believe how many years had passed since that night in the rain. Sansa was nearing her birthday in a house full of strangers. She spent only one in Riverrun being a solemn affair with only Mrs. Cole and two servants as her uncle was at the local pub instead to gamble and drink.

Before that, was her last birthday at the Vale and it went uncelebrated. Her aunt would have preferred Sansa come to her home almost five years ago. Her Grace said the king decreed that she give shelter to her only niece. Shelter was all it was. Aunt Lysa made it clear that she only allowed her sister’s daughter because the king commanded it. Sansa was sure that her aunt would have turned her away otherwise. The woman seemed to have no love for the new king or the Lannisters, but Sansa felt an intense hatred from her aunt that she just could not understand. There was no love or kindness. Her son Robert was a sickly boy of four and ten and the only person that likened to her. He was spoilt and terribly childish for his age but had it not been for his adolescent affection, Sansa never would have left her room.

The doctors said the boy needed fresh air and Sansa was allowed to take him to the gardens and just occasionally to the small town nearby. The duchess threw numerous balls trying to find a bride worthy of her only son, the future Duke of the Vale. It would have to be a strong girl indeed to put up with his immature ways. It wasn’t Robert’s fault, though. Aunt Lysa had made him that way. He rarely, if ever, left the house since he was a baby, she was told. The duchess even breastfed him until he was almost the age of ten. Sansa wondered if gossip such as that had traveled far enough to other respectable houses or how odd the Duchess was.

Her aunt blathered on about how no lady from the north or Riverland families were good enough for her precious Robert. She must seek a bride from the south instead. Southern families perhaps would not know such gossip and would be more willing to marry into title and wealth for the Arryns were an ancient family with royal bloodlines stretching back generations.

Sansa remembered that ball in detail as the tears dried on her cheeks and her eyes closed tiredly. The music was playing downstairs again, and she could feel herself drifting further and further into that swirl of twirling silks and polished leather boots.

The chatter became louder and louder as she descended the staircase in her only ball gown of lavender. She had tried desperately to lower the hem and hide a few worn spots with little flowers she had embroidered. They were placed to look as if they were a part of the dress’ design and not meant to hide its age.

Carriages arrived all afternoon carrying the lords and ladies of the south. The local gentry came for the ball that evening, but the duchess seemed to have invited as many eligible young ladies and their well-connected fathers as possible to secure a match for young Robert. Sansa pitied the boy. She knew too well what arranged marriages could mean.

Her maid pinned Sansa’s auburn tresses up using a few of her mother’s old combs. It would have to do, she sighed. The dress wasn’t that bad. The embroidery and a few little silk flowers she made using fabric from an old blue bodice that gave her lavender dress a renewal. Her aunt did not offer to buy any new clothing, and Sansa dared not ask. The woman was terrifying in her every changing moods. Sansa learned just how quickly the duchess could swing from mild pleasantry into a rage. The servants were in constant fear of her judgmental and over demanding ways. A maid was almost beat when she accidentally spilled tea on the woman and was dismissed that day. Sansa decided it was best to just stay out of her aunt’s path and not draw attention to herself.

Sansa looked in the mirror seeing more and more of her mother staring back. There was a portrait of her made when she married Father, and right now they looked so very much alike. Aunt Lysa pointed out that fact many times during her stay and Sansa realized there was no love lost between sisters. In actuality, Aunt Lysa hated Sansa’s mother. Something in regards to her being wanton and taking the attention of a boy Lysa fancied.

Her mother was betrothed to a Stark since childbirth. Fortunately, she married and found love. Aunt Lysa was married off for family, duty, and honor and ended up with an old man. Jon Arryn was old enough to be her grandfather and had a difficult time getting her with child. Not long after Robert was born, did the man die under suspicious circumstances. Often she told Sansa how she hated being forced to marry. She wanted to marry her childhood love, but he was sent away because of Catelyn. So, a boy loved her mother more than her aunt, and Grandfather Tully sent him away with Lysa forever blaming Catelyn for her woes.

Now, she was attempting to marry her son off to a family with the best heritage and wealth. The irony made Sansa laugh bitterly as she entered the grand foyer. Young ladies in beautiful gowns passed giggling madly, and Sansa’s heart dropped. Her own lavender gown was old, and out of fashion despite all the work she put into it. These southern ladies were dressed in stunning silks and laces and looked like little princesses with pretty jewels around their necks and in their hair.

The local gentry did not have a wealth of the families invited tonight, and Sansa felt entirely out of her league. When her father was the duke, Sansa never worried about such things. Her mother kept her and Arya in the latest fashions, especially since Sansa was introduced into society as Marchioness with quite the dowry for marriage.

She took a step back and was about to go back to her room when Lady Myranda approached, and Sansa sighed.

“Oh, Lady Sansa, there you are,” she smiled with her sing-song voice. There was nothing pleasant about her tone Sansa knew so well. Myranda made faking pleasantry an art form.

“Lady Myranda. You look lovely. Her Grace will be pleased you, and Lord Royce could attend,” Sansa offered the same practiced graciousness. Sansa hadn’t lied, not really. Myranda’s dress was lovely in a pale rose that accented her plentiful bosom. She would surely gain plenty of attention from gentlemen tonight.

“Father loathes these things, but he does it for me,” she smiled while her eyes scrutinized Sansa’s appearance.

“That colour suits you, it’s a shame the dress is old fashioned, but you’re pretty enough... perhaps no one will notice,” the brunette said, touching the embroidery with a smirk. “You’re quite good with a needle, I must say, but sooner or later, Her Grace _will_ have to buy you something new if you are to attend more balls.”

“I don’t care for balls. I’m only here to appease my cousin. He is a bit nervous,” Sansa countered, trying to find an escape.

“Oh yes, he retched all over Lord Pembry last time, didn’t he? Poor lad, his mother will have to pay quite the dowry to find him a suitable bride,” Myranda laughed, but Sansa did not find her funny.

“Still looking for a groom yourself, I see?” Sansa mumbled before she could stop herself.

“Oh, playing the jealous spinster is not attractive, _Lady_ Sansa,” Myranda spat under her breath, smiling at two gentlemen as they passed by. “In fact, I have found a rather wealthy earl, and Father intends to speak with him this very evening. While you're cleaning up after your cousin, I’ll be a countess by the time I marry. Oh, you were a Marchioness once weren’t you? How quickly things can change, isn’t it?”

It was hard to believe Sansa thought Myranda was kindly and could be a new friend when she arrived in the Vale. No, Myranda was nothing but a gossipmonger and only looking for a way to better her circumstances. Befriending Sansa allowed her into the duchess’s home only to glean information and make contacts for a profitable marriage.

Sansa watched the buxom woman sashay across the foyer, finding the two men that passed by moments ago as young Lord Robert’s voice rang out in excitement.

“Sansa! I’m so glad you’re here. Mother said she didn’t think it was proper for you to attend tonight. I told her I wanted you to come. I said I wouldn’t go if she didn’t allow you to come downstairs,” he gleamed in satisfaction.

“Thank you, my lord,” she smiled sadly for she would have preferred to stay in her room tonight.

Robert tried to stand tall, but he was still several inches shorter than Sansa as he leaned in close and whispered, “You have to dance with me. Promise. I’m very nervous about dancing with all those ladies. I’m not good at all… with everyone watching.”

Sansa took his hand and smiled sweetly. “You’re an excellent dancer, my lord,” she lied. “Any one of those ladies should be proud to dance with you.”

The boy grinned and held her hand tightly, “I wish I could marry you instead.”

Sansa felt such a terrible pity for him. He dreaded tonight just as much as she did. “I’m not worthy of such kind and good future duke. You’re meant to marry a lady of good family. Not someone like me. Your mother would never allow it,” she frowned, yet in her heart she was grateful. She couldn’t imagine having to marry her cousin.

“ _Robert!_ ”

They both turned to see the duchess come from the sitting room. Sansa bit her lip to keep from gasping and wrinkling her nose at the floral perfume. Her aunt was dressed as a woman half her age. Her plump and sagging body squeezed into her corset to the point of bursting. She had curled her hair and pinned it up in an old style similar to her mother’s portrait back in Winterfell. Her face was powdered with painted rosy cheeks and lips that aged her more than it helped. A well-placed beauty mark crinkled when she frowned while the lines on her face grew more profound.

“Stop dallying with your cousin and come with me. We must greet our guests,” she seethed, and Robert dropped Sansa’s hand immediately moving to his mother’s side.

Aunt Lysa eyed Sansa with contempt and smirked at her dress. “My son has insisted on your attendance. Do not embarrass us in front of your betters or you’ll wish you were with your dead, traitor mother.”

Sansa refrained from saying that she would prefer to share her mother’s cold grave than live here and waited for them to disappear into the next room before trying to calm herself. This was just one more ball she had to endure, Sansa convinced herself.

 _Just stay quiet and out of the way and it would all be over soon enough_.

Unfortunately, the night dragged on slowly as Sansa tried in earnest to make herself invisible. Robert insisted on one dance early in the evening when he was too scared to ask any of the young ladies waiting and tittering at the scared future duke.

He stepped on her toes so many times, Sansa thought they’d bleed but she didn’t show any sign of discomfort and only smiled at her poor cousin. As the ball progressed and the wine flowed, she could hear the disgruntled talk from fathers at how they were going to marry their daughters off. It sickened Sansa at how they wished the boy would die after the marriage, and then they could seize control of the estates.

In a way, Sansa was beginning to be feel some content she was no longer considered marriageable material for people like this. Is this what all her suitors father’s thought when sending proposals for her hand? Lands, titles, gold, and how many heirs could she bear? It was revolting. It seemed all a girl was good for was what lay between her legs and her dowry.

Sansa drank a few glasses and felt the alcohol calm her nerves. She was nothing to these people. It wasn’t her hand anyone was vying for tonight. She needed to play her part and hopefully leave without Robert noticing.

Strolling from room to room, it was the same mindless conversations. Men were discussing politics, business, and something about an earl that was gaining favor in court. The man was blockade runner and smuggler and now had become a financial adviser to the king himself. The jealousy made Sansa smile a little. So, there were men that still alienated the ton. How lovely! However, if he was in favor with the king and gaining new titles, he wasn’t a man that had any good qualities, she surmised. Anyone associated with the royal family was lower than horse shit, her brother Robb always said.

The empty chatter amongst the ladies was no better. They fawned over each other and complimented their gowns and jewelry and Sansa had to cover her laugh. Were they all such bad liars? God in heaven, did she behave like this once upon a time?

“What are you smirking about?” a girl wearing a yellow dress scowled at Sansa.

“Me?” Sansa feigned ignorance.

“Yes. I do believe I was speaking to you,” the girl said haughtily.

Aunt Lysa’s warning rang loudly in her mind, and Sansa warmly smiled, “Oh, I was just holding a sneeze. These flowers tend to bother me, my lady.”

The girl looked at Sansa’s dress and grinned, “Yes, well, I suppose you’re used to mud and rocks where you’re from.”

The other girls giggled and whispered to each other. Sansa was used to her aunt’s rudeness, but she wanted to smack the sneers from these girls faces. She spied Lady Myranda a few feet away with three men fawning over her, and the woman smiled nastily. Sansa was about to turn and leave when a pretty blonde wearing a peach coloured dress came up to her.

“My sister had a dress like this years ago but not as old and ugly,” she laughed, fingering a blue silk flower near Sansa’s shoulder. “She gave it to our governess. _Did she give it to you_?”

Sansa held her chin high and refused to let these little girls get the better of her. She was one and twenty and did not have to play these childish games.

“Oh, this is Lord Robert’s cousin. Father said the duchess had taken her in after her traitor father was executed,” a brunette said behind her. The pretty ladies had surrounded her like predators stalking their prey, and Sansa held still. She could not make a scene.

“Is this what a northerner looks like? I heard her father was a lumbering troll, and her mother a whore. Nothing but filthy bastards. To think they give any of those northmen titles,” another girl jeered.

Sansa seethed, “Don’t you dare…”

She didn’t get to finish her sentence when the chatter climbed, and people began filtering into the ballroom.

“Is that him?” a female voice said.

“He is a rake, my brother says. Lost two hundred to him in gold just last winter in Kings Landing,” said another.

“I can’t believe the duchess would invite such a man…”

“Is he handsome? Most rakes are handsome, aren’t they?” a girl giggled.

“Isn’t he supposedly very wealthy?” another frivolous voice rang out.

The girls’ attention was now on the mysterious man that had entered the ballroom, and it finally gave Sansa her escape. Just as she was about to sneak into the foyer, Lord Robert came bouncing in as if he received a birthday gift.

“He came, Sansa. Uncle Petyr came to my ball! I didn’t think he was going to come, but he did,” the boy smiled, and Sansa had no idea who he was talking about. Surely not the man that was the rumoured smuggler and libertine!

Robert took her hand and dragged Sansa into the next room where the crowd was whispering and gossiping wildly as a dark-haired man bowed and kissed the duchess’s hand. The image was something she never thought she would ever see. Her aunt giggling like a girl her son’s age. She mussed with her hair and dress so many times that Sansa wasn’t sure it wasn’t the same woman she knew.

“Uncle Petyr! You must meet my cousin,” Robert piped up, pulling her along.

Sansa could see the disapproving glare on her aunt’s face as they moved closer and then the man turned around, his cloak swirling elegantly with him. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was still taller than Sansa. His mouth smiled but not his eyes. It was his eyes that caught her attention. A deep grey-green that seemed to see right through her. He was acutely aware of his surroundings and the Aunt Lysa burning a hole in his back.

He bowed softly and took her hand, leaving a dry kiss on her fingers.

“Lady Sansa,” he said graciously holding her gaze for only a moment. “The pleasure is mine.” Immediately, he straightened his posture and grinned at the young boy. “I hope I haven’t missed much, Your Grace.”

“Don’t call me that, I hate that,” Robert frowned and then quickly smiled again. “It’s not late, and mother said I could stay up late tonight if I wish.”

“Haven’t stepped on too many ladies toes yet, I’m guessing,” the man chuckled.

“No. I’m a perfect dancer. Sansa… I mean Lady Sansa says so herself,” Robert smiled retaking Sansa’s hand.

The man smiled genuinely this time looking directly at her.

“Did she? I’m wagering she was taught well. Tully women _are_ very graceful,” he smiled and suddenly turned to the duchess. “Arent’ they, my lovely Lysa?”

The scowl disappeared, and she giggled like a girl again. “Petyr, you sinful man,” she whispered. “You know you shouldn’t be so informal with me in front of these people.”

He bowed again and teased, “Of course. We must keep up appearances, mustn’t we?”

Removing his cloak and handing it to a waiting footman, the man made her aunt smile and laugh as Sansa began to back away when Robert did not let go of her hand.

“Where are you going?” he whispered. “It’s not late yet, and I want to dance again.”

Sansa’s toes cried at the thought. Before she could answer, her aunt chimed in.

“Oh, no, darling. Your dance card is full,” she said in a sing-song voice washing Sansa with relief. “You can waste your time with your cousin at any time. There are many ladies patiently waiting to dance with my handsome son.”

“I want one more dance with Sansa, mother. Just one more before the night is over,” Robert whined, and Sansa could see the dark-haired ‘uncle’ roll his eyes.

“Lysa let him have one dance. Lady Sansa, I’m sure, will have time later. The young gentlemen are certainly going to be lining up for her hand the moment the music starts,” the man said smiling, “That will give young Robert plenty of dances with all of these lovely ladies.”

Sansa cast her eyes down, refusing to let them see the hurt. She didn’t know this nobleman, but he was either woefully ignorant, or he was just like her aunt. _Cruel_. No gentlemen were lining up asking her to dance. She had not been asked once all night.

Adding salt to the wound, her aunt laughed and pulled the man with her across the room. “Fine, Robert. One dance,” she called over her shoulder and then leaned into the man, “and you, sir, will be all mine tonight.”

Robert looked sad and asked, “You’re not really going to dance with lots of men tonight, are you, Sansa?”

“No. I’ll be waiting over there when you’ve pleased your mother,” Sansa smiled and pointed to a small chaise lounge near the terrace doors. If she was fortunate, she could disappear before he noticed and give her excuses tomorrow that she drank too much wine and felt ill.

The young boy wandered over to a gaggle of the same girls that insulted her minutes before, and she could almost hear them groan in dismay. Good, Sansa thought, let their toes suffer for a few hours.

To her disappointment, Sansa glued herself to the wall and watched as Robert danced terribly but kept looking his cousin each time he faced her direction. She wasn’t going to get out of this one, sadly and drank a few more glasses of champagne. Aunt Lysa bought the best for occasions such as this. She was always trying too hard to impress others when her title gave her no reason to do so. She had the name and wealth without having to brag but brag she did. At the very least the food and wine was excellent as Sansa stood bored watching everyone dance in reel after reel having a wonderful time. A handsome young man asked her to dance, and she was about to accept when she could see his friends snickering in the corner.

As Sansa watched, she could see faces staring at her and whispers shared behind gloved hands. As they passed by, she tried to pretend as if she couldn’t hear the hurtful things these people said.

“ _Traitor._ ”

“These northerners in their country dresses… no better than servants.”

“The duchess is a saintly woman for taking _her_ in.”

“Can you believe the king was to marry the _likes_ of her?”

The traitorous wallflower, that’s what Sansa was to southerners, so it seemed. The one man asking her to dance was merely a cruel joke so they could laugh later. Aunt Lysa was monopolizing the dark-haired man’s time, but he occasionally would glance her way and once Sansa thought she saw a hint of sorrow on his face. Lord Robert was waving at her as he stepped on the blonde’s foot and apologized and Sansa waved back sadly.

Another young man came by and started flirting, but it was mainly to get Sansa to go with him somewhere private. Apparently, she was expected to be a whore as well since no one in their right mind would marry her. She slapped the man’s hands when he muttered “northern slut” as he walked away. It was too much. None of the previous balls had been like this. The local gentry was bad enough, but this was more than she could endure. The tears welled up, and Sansa refused to let them see her cry. She would not let them see they finally broke her.

Sansa slipped out the door onto the terrace, praying no one else was outside for the tears spilled uncontrollably. The night’s chill was enough to keep everyone inside, and Sansa was grateful to be alone at last. She would rather freeze out here than go back inside. The stone bench was ice cold as she sat and couldn’t stop the sob that escaped her throat.

Why did people have to be so cruel? Never in her life had she experienced real loathing directed at her. These people did not know her. All they knew was the vicious gossip the king spread about her and her family. He mercifully spared her life and punished her accordingly. It was worse to be shunned and alone than dead.

Sansa glanced over the balcony and wondered if it would hurt. It was a long drop to the stone terrace below. No one would even think to look for her, she thought bitterly. No one but Robert, she sighed. Annoying and spoiled as the boy was, he appeared to be the only one that remotely cared if she lived or died.

“Careful, my lady,” a soft voice uttered behind her. “Lean too far, I daresay I won’t catch you in time.”

Sansa turned slightly to see the dark-haired man crept slowly towards her as if not to frighten her.

“I’m fine, my lord,” she sniffed, trying to hide her tears. “I would rather be alone if you don’t mind.”

The man continued forward, “I’m afraid I do mind. It’s not wise for a lady as beautiful as you to be out here all alone. One of those young boys might think to take advantage of you.”

“And you’re the gentleman coming to my rescue, is that so?” she retorted coldly choking back another sob.

He chuckled softly, “I’m no gentleman.”

“So I hear,” she added and turned to look across the gardens.

He laughed at that and sat next to her but just far enough for the sake of propriety.

“They say many things, don’t they?” she could hear the smile in his voice, but then it changed. “Don’t let them see you cry, my lady.”

A handkerchief held by a pristine, white glove waited patiently before she finally took it knowing she should say thank you out of politeness, but it didn’t come.

“I’m not a lady, if you have listened well enough in there,” she said, dabbing her eyes.

He was silent, and Sansa glanced up at him as he stared at the frivolity inside the french doors. He had a striking profile, she noticed. Chiseled features, a straight nose, and eyes that seemed to be deep in thought. He was older but seemed younger than her aunt if Sansa had to guess. He was not handsome in the way that young girls would swoon over, but he was far from unattractive. Clearly, her aunt was doing her best to keep his attention tonight.

“If _they_ are the measure of a lady, I daresay I’m happy you’re not one,” Lord Petyr spoke serenely not looking at her. He stood after a time and offered his hand. “Come, my lady. It’s too cold out here. You’ll catch your death if you stay much longer. I can’t have that on my conscious.”

There was a knowing look in his eyes and the way he spoke as he stared at her. Reluctantly, Sansa took his hand and dabbed at her nose until he stole away the soft cloth. Surprisingly, he gently touched around her swollen eyes, making Sansa gaze at the man in wonder.

The music drifted outside, and Lord Petyr smiled.

“May I have the honor of this dance, my lady?”

Sansa knew the music and the dance. The waltz was her favourite when she debuted her first season, but that meant she had to be close to this man and it made her nervous for some reason. They were alone on the terrace, and it simply wasn’t proper not only for her to be outside unaccompanied with a man not of her family.

“I’m sorry my lord, I never learned this dance,” Sansa lied easily letting her nerves show. She should not be out here and stepped away only to be drawn back into his arms.

“Then I shall teach you,” he whispered.

“It’s not proper, my lord,” she objected when Lord Petyr took her hand in his and leaned forward.

“Would you rather learn in there?” he tilted his head towards the doors.

Mortified at the thought of dancing with him with _them_ watching was too much.

“ _No._ ”

“Then stop fidgeting,” he teased. “It’s simple. Count one, two, three starting with your left foot and follow my lead. _One_ …”

Sansa purposefully stepped on his foot, hoping he would give up and leave her alone, but he didn’t.

“Again, left foot, my dear. I find it difficult to believe you are not a quick study,” Lord Petyr chastised lightly, and Sansa finally surrendered following his lead with ease. She would give him one quick dance and then retreat back inside and run to her room. Robert, be damned.

He was a patient teacher even though she knew the steps perfectly and when he did not let her go, Sansa finally let him take control. Lord Petyr guided her gently in small circles, and before she knew it, the music ended and her all her self-doubts and fears rose to the surface, immediately stepping away from him.

Lord Petyr took her hand and pulled Sansa along with him in his long gait back to the doors leading to the ball inside. He stopped briefly in the filtered light and scanned her face. Seemingly satisfied, the man took her arm, guiding her inside. A few people whispered at the young woman and older lord coming in from the terrace, and Sansa could only imagine what was being said about them. Looking to the man, he did not seem to care at all as he moved through the bystanders until pulling her onto the floor where other couples were waiting in two lines for the next reel to begin.

Sansa’s eyes glanced quickly around the room, glimpsing the whispers and shaking of heads. Her aunt was nowhere to be seen in this unsettling band of spectators, and yet it did not quell her fears. Myranda’s eyes were full of disdain as she whispered to her father, Lord Royce. The music started, and the first pair moved down the line while catching Robert’s gleeful smile as he bowed and took the young lady’s hands near the end. A slight cough from the man standing across from her brought Sansa’s senses back as he took her hands gently with a smile. The dance progressed, but in reels, there was no time to speak to one’s partner as they regularly switched until the end.

Dancing with people that detested her and yet had to hold her hands was comical and slightly rewarding in a strange way. Lord Petyr left her as he spoke to the musicians and returned quickly as the dance space emptied and the onlookers stared in curiosity. He took her waist and right hand, bringing his body so close he could whisper in her ear.

“Shall we give them something to gossip about?” he teased. Before Sansa could object, the music started, and he glided her effortlessly into the waltz.

To Sansa’s horror, they were the only couple on the floor as eyes watched their every move. Lord Petyr was a splendid dancer, and at any other time, she might have enjoyed dancing with him. Fearful eyes scanned the faces wondering where her Aunt Lysa could be. She would not be pleased. She clearly expressed Sansa not to embarrass her tonight and yet here she was dancing with an earl that sported quite the reputation. The pair of them would make for enough scandal to last months.

Sansa didn’t know which would be worse if she broke away from the man right now or just finished the dance. Glaring eyes answered her question forcing Sansa to step away immediately as the sight of her aunt chilled her to the bone.

The woman was furious, and Sansa knew that rumours had made its way to her ears as Myranda stood next to the duchess with a look of satisfaction. She seduced him out on that terrace, that’s what they would say. That’s what her aunt would believe, but it wasn’t true. Nothing happened, but who would believe her? No one. Aunt Lysa was jealous of her mother and now of the daughter. If she threatened to beat a maid over spilt tea, what would happen to her?

All of a sudden Sansa was dressed in her new, blue gown and Lord Petyr was dancing with her alone in Harrenhal’s ballroom with the music box’s sweet and intoxicating tune. He guided her around the floor, and no eyes were judging them this time. The music stopped as those green eyes filled with desire gazing at her lips. Sansa waited for Duncan’s interruption yet it did not come. She held her breath when his head lowered; she didn’t stop him.

Those lips were soft tasting the mint on his breath. Sansa felt herself melt into him as he deepened the kiss leaving her breathless. Sansa was getting lost in it, in him, his kiss. She wanted it and slowly circled her arms around his neck, holding him close.

_No, you shouldn’t like this._

“But you do,” his voice answered, even though his mouth was firmly pressed to hers.

_No, it’s wrong. This is all wrong. I should not be here._

“But you are,” he answered again.

_I do not want to be here._

“Such sweet lies…”

 

 

Sansa woke in a cold sweat looking around the room. She was in bed, not downstairs, not at the Eyrie. Laying her head back onto the feather pillow, Sansa stared at the ceiling. She was living in his home now, well over a year after that fateful night in the Vale. Never would Sansa have guessed that she would have ever met this man again.

The dream felt so real as she touched her lips. Her mind decided to show her know what Lord Pety’rs kiss would have been had Duncan not taken the moment away. Just as in the dream, she knew she probably would not have stopped him. Not right away, at least.

As much as she hated to admit it, Sansa missed that attention from gentlemen before they turned sour and filled with loathing. It felt lovely for only a moment to be held and desired. Looking into eyes that didn’t look back with disgust.

The fact still remained heavy in Sansa’s mind. Her aunt cast her out because of vicious gossip with a man that danced with her that night. Sansa wondered if Lord Petyr knew that immediately after he left that the duchess sent Sansa away. Did he care about the lasting effect of his actions? For all she knew, he cut her down the moment she left the ballroom to save face in front of his peers, especially the duchess and her son.

Of course, they would be more significant than a northern girl no one cared about. Reading her aunt’s letter in his study, she clearly had let the matter go a year later. He was now a high lord with wealth and power behind him. Aunt Lysa probably thought he was only taking pity on her shunned niece, not realizing the consequences of his kindnesses.

Laying in the warm bed, Sansa just could not understand why she was here. He did not have to gamble at all. Lord Petyr could have left her at Riverrun and never think of her again. Oddly, he brought her to his lavish home, purchased the most beautiful clothing, and essentially made her head of his house. Why?

_He did almost kiss you._

No, Lord Baelish couldn’t be obtuse enough make someone like Sansa, his wife. If he were to stay in favour, not only with the royal family but society as well, he would need to make a good marriage from an established family, not a blood traitor to the king. No, she thought, he was just a man acting on his basic instincts. He did call her beautiful and lovely after all. She was just a pretty face that he would never have to worry smudging his character or fear the pressure of marriage from an angry father.

Lord Petyr was a man that lived for himself only. He took the opportunities to gain wealth and power by aligning with the Lannisters and supporting their claim to the throne. Because of his connections, he was now the Marquess of Harrenhal and Lord Paramount of the Trident. He wasn’t going to throw that away for the daughter of a woman he cared about from his childhood.

_Her mother. Yes, that was it._

Mrs. Cole said he was in love with her when they were children. Everyone always said Sansa looked like her at that age. Perhaps that’s why he might have kissed her. It wasn’t Sansa he desired but a memory of the past until Duncan brought him to his senses.

Strangely enough, that thought hurt as well. That the one man who was showing her kindness was only doing so because of affection for someone else. Sansa was going to live out the rest of her life, not experiencing love. She would be a spinster and end up an old housekeeper or governess. No man would want to marry her now. Her father’s line would die with her. The idea of living like this into old age seemed a worse fate than dying with her family with honor. Yes, sparing Sansa from death was vindictive, indeed.

Sansa wondered if she really would have plunged to the stone terrace below had Baelish not come outside that night. Sadly, he had saved her not twice but three times since meeting him. What did he save her for? There wasn’t exactly much to live for. Having left behind the last of her family, she was entirely on her own and either had to fend for herself or finally let it all go.

Giving her a home seemed to be the only thing he had in mind. Most likely, Lord Petyr would be away in Kings Landing or wherever his business took him. He said himself, he would be leaving for the capital before winter. That meant she would be left here to housekeep for him. If he married, perhaps he would take his bride south instead of this lonely place. A southern lady would not want to live here all year except on holiday trips to the country. Even Sansa was excited at the idea of moving south to the capital city of Kings Landing and away from the northern countryside. There were theatres, gardens, warm weather, and city society. She imagined of all the royal balls and parties she would attend as a princess and eventually queen.

A sound drew Sansa out of her melancholy as she sat up in bed. Straining her ears to hear, the soft melody echoed her sadness, and Sansa knew where it was coming from. Wrapping her satin dressing gown around her delicate and sheer nightdress, Sansa padded to her door and pressed her ear to the wood. Yes, it was definitely the piano again.

Sansa cracked open her door as the sound drifted up and around her. She glanced down the dark hallway. No light streamed from Lord Baelish’s study and Sansa’s clock told her it was almost two in the morning. There was no strange reddish light as she witnessed that day she snuck into his room only the somber tune that played below.

She stepped from the safety of her room and moved to look over the banister. This time a frightened maid did not rush to her side, and Sansa could only listen. When she went downstairs the first night it happened, the music had stopped before she left her room. This time, it played, and Sansa was here listening. She could go downstairs and actually catch the person if she dared.

Sansa tried to forget the ghostly voice that bellowed when she stepped on the warm marble floors as she moved around the landing slowly making her way to the grand staircase. The piano played on as she took her first step, descending down.

The gloomy melody filled the air even as Sansa reached the bottom and could see the moon’s light streaming from the music room. One door was slightly ajar, yet she could not see inside fully. It was darker than the first night, and Sansa wished she had brought a candle. She could hear a rainstorm had begun and it seemed to play in time with the piano and snuff out the moonlight leading her way.

Her foot hit the leg of a small table against the wall, causing Sansa to stumble, knocking over a vase. She winced before the porcelain crashed to the floor and the music stopped abruptly into an eerie silence. Sansa waited for the person to come into the foyer for the music room only had one door. In the darkness, she paused, but no one came.

Sansa stepped around the broken pieces hearing one crunch beneath her foot and grimaced again. Entering the music room, she found it once again… empty. Only a shred of light aided her eyes to see as she saw a candlestick on the credenza next to the door and lit it. The glow cast a shadow from the harp, making her yelp.

She was alone, and not a soul passed through those doors. All the windows were locked from the inside. Sansa stepped to the piano and stared at the instrument in wonder. Her nervous hand hovered over the bench for a moment before touching the polished wood.

 _It was warm_. Someone or _something_ was here and disappeared into thin air. Building up her courage, Sansa removed her slipper and felt the heat from the floor. Her heart raced wildly, and yet no sound came from the floor and walls as it did last time. Taking the candle as if it yielded some kind of protection, she backed out of the room. She was about to pick up the pieces of the broken vase when the flame extinguished in a breath of air and childish giggle.

Terrified, she turned around, and only an eery gloom surrounded her.

 _"Don’t be afraid,"_ a sweet little voice said next to her ear and Sansa screamed!

The vase forgotten, Sansa quickly ran up the stairs and into her room, locking the door. She caught her breath for only a moment when the creak of old hinges behind her had Sansa turning her head. The metallic tune played as the lid of the music box opened on the table next to her bed. Sansa couldn’t breathe at the sight. Her body went cold and tingly and felt herself falling. It was then her head struck something hard as she collapsed to the floor, blocking her bedroom door.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

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Fists were pounding on the door as a voice cried out, “Sansa! Open the door!”

Sansa could hear a man yelling but her body was paralyzed. She wanted to open her eyes but they felt as though heavy stones lay upon her eyelids.

Footsteps sprinted away only to return with the sound of a key turning in the lock. With a sharp click, the door opened only a crack, hindered by the unconscious body that lay on the floor behind it.

“Sansa… Dear God,” the voice mumbled in fear as the door was cautiously pushed harder not to further injure the girl.

The man was finally able to slide through the door, entering the room. Pulling her body away, he opened the door fully to the hallway.

“Mrs. Ames!” he roared as his strained voice echoed back to him in the large house. “ _Mrs. Ames!_ ”

Gentle hands lifted her torso up just enough to lean into his chest and slip an arm under her legs. She was laid down on the bed just as the housekeeper, wrapping her dressing gown securely around her frame, ran into the room.

“Yes, my lord…. Oh dear, what has happened?” the old woman gasped at the pale girl on the bed.

“I heard a scream, and when I looked out my door, hers slammed shut. It was locked and when I retrieved the key, she was lying on the floor,” Lord Petyr said breathlessly.

Withered, old hands touched her face and arms softly. “She’s cold and clammy as the dead. I’ll fetch spirit of hartshorn,” the woman said.

After a moment, soft fingers caressed her cheek tenderly, pushing back her hair. Sansa could detect mint and brandy and knew that calming scent. Suddenly, a pungent ammonia filled her nostrils, popping open her eyes as everything came back in a whirl.

Sansa sat up with a gasp, looking wildly around the room. Lord Petyr sat next to her as Mrs. Ames stood by the bedpost with concern written on both their faces. Sansa scrambled to the side of the bed away from them.

“Sansa?” Lord Petyr spoked gingerly, but she didn’t hear him. Her eyes were wide and fixed on the open music box resting behind him. Slowly Sansa slid the bed and backed away across the room while her eyes never left the wooden box. The wardrobe halted her retreat. Sansa would have crawled inside if she had half a mind to do so.

Mrs. Ames lit a candelabra that cast a glow on Lord Petyr’s face, hiding half in shadow. His dark eyes watched her intensely, worry laced with suspicion. Sansa couldn’t tear her eyes away from the music box. Is wasn’t so much as how it got into her room, but that it opened and played by itself that made her shiver in fear.

A voice, she distinctly heard a voice downstairs… God, was she going mad in this house?

A growing sound of nervous chatter filled the hallway, when Mrs. Ames shooed out what must have been the servants. They would have much to gossip about come morning as if they didn’t have enough questions about the northern girl staying with them.

“Child, what happened?” the kindly voice asked.

Sansa’s eyes flicked to the old woman and didn’t know how to answer her. Would they think her mad? Send her away? The maid, Sarah, said there were spirits in this house. Did everyone here believe such things, or was it only something jested about in private?

“I don’t know,” she lied, stuttering a bit and feeling a terrible ache behind her ear. “I might have tripped in the dark….”

Lord Petyr’s eyes narrowed, and yet he didn’t say a word.

“Lord Baelish said he heard a scream and couldn’t open your door. You’ve never locked your door before,” Mrs. Ames countered softly.

Sansa’s head ached terribly as she tried to piece everything together. She could lie, but his eyes gave her warning. Sansa hadn’t been able to lie convincingly to Lord Petyr yet. Somehow he knew it was she that screamed and locked her bedroom door.

“I - I woke from a bad dream and heard music… _downstairs_ ,” she began. Mrs. Ames was listening earnestly but Sansa couldn’t read Lord Petyr at all as he watched her.

“Did you go downstairs?” he pressed lightly yet his tone told her not to lie to him.

“Yes,” she shivered. “There was nothing. No one in the music room. I broke a vase,” she muttered, “I’m sorry. I hope it wasn’t too valuable.”

“A vase?” the old woman chuckled, “Dear, don’t worry yourself…”

“Why did you scream?” he interrupted, never taking his eyes off her.

Sansa’s mind worked rapidly, “I – I scared myself. Stupid, really. Maybe I wasn’t truly awake. It was a nasty nightmare after all…”

“A _nightmare_. Yet, you woke, heard music, came downstairs, broke a vase, screamed loud enough to wake the house and ran back to your room locking the door?” he asked unconvinced.

Sansa didn’t know how to answer him as her eyes continually darted back to that damned music box, then the fear set in. How would she explain _that_? The last time Sansa saw it, the box was in Lord Petyr’s dressing room. Sansa thought she imagined it when she heard the tune after leaving the room, but there it sat, right on her side table… _and she did not put it there_.

Her heart stopped when suddenly, Lord Petyr’s head turned following the direction of her stare over his shoulder. His jaw set and when he glanced back, the look there could have frozen God’s Eye lake.

“Mrs. Ames, if you’ll leave us please,” he commanded quietly.

The housekeeper looked between the two with unease and added timidly, “My lord, if I may, it’s not quite proper for her to be alone…”

“I will not tell you again,” he countered, all the while staring at the young woman across the room.

Nervously, Mrs. Ames gave Sansa an apologetic look as she opened and closed the door behind her. All at once, the air was so thick, one could cut it with a knife. Lord Petyr had not moved an inch from where he sat, and Sansa didn’t know what to say or do.

Gracefully, he stood and picked up the box, handling it with care. His black dressing gown almost touched the floor and hung on his narrow frame as he remained motionless in deep thought.

“I’m waiting for an answer,” he spoke smoothly, refusing to look at her and knowing he didn’t need to ask how one of his belongings came to be in her possession.

“I don’t have one,” she answered truthfully. What in God’s name was she supposed to tell him? A ghost put it there? She very well couldn’t tell him she was meddling in his room during his absence.

He traced the delicate carving with his fingertips. “Hm,” he huffed softly, “Shall I supply it? I didn’t think thievery ran in your family…”

“I haven’t stolen _anything_ ,” she defended indignantly.

“Yet something very precious to me is here in your room, _right next to your bed_. Very curious,” Lord Petyr said with dark sarcasm. Any concern he may have felt for her well-being moments ago was long gone.

“I don’t know how that got in here. It wasn’t here when I went downstairs,” Sansa spluttered.

“Ah. A moment ago you said you didn’t think you were fully awake and didn’t know what happened… you seem rather lucid _now_ in recalling details,” Lord Petyr cross-examined with ease.

“I’m telling you the truth. I did not put that there. It was here when I returned, and it was playing by itself,” Sansa spoke too quickly before she could stop herself.

“My dear, I am not a fool. Let me tell you what I think. Since arriving home early, you did not have time to return this to my room where you have been prying in my absence,” he retorted coldly. Sansa had to admit he had it half right. “So, are you accusing me of putting this here or one of my servants?”

“No!” she exclaimed in frustration. “I don’t know how else to tell you I didn’t take it. I never took it from your dressing room!”

The moment it spilled out of her mouth, Sansa couldn’t take it back. Lord Petyr caught her in a lie, and they both knew it. What was she supposed to say now? Someone or a ghost was playing nasty tricks on her. He wouldn’t believe her now that he knew she had been spying through his things.

The marquess set the box down and walked around her bed until she was cornered between the wardrobe and window. Even though they were the same height, he seemed much taller as he hovered over her.

“If you wanted to see my bedroom, sweetling,” he whispered seductively, “all you had to do was ask.”

The undercurrent of his tone was menacing. Sansa’s pulse raced, but it wasn’t the pleasant flutter she felt in the ballroom when his lips were so close to hers. He knew full well she was scared and played on those fears anyway.

“Although,” Lord Petyr continued with a smirk, “the tour would have never left my bed…”

Before she knew it, Sansa’s hand flew on its own, slapping his cheek, making her gasp from the action. She hit him, actually hit him. Sansa thought he might strike her since Joffrey had beaten her many times before. Sansa winced in anticipation when she realized he hadn’t flinched or even raised his hand in retaliation.

He sighed and took a step back, “I remember telling you that I don’t rape women. I should amend that statement to include that I do not beat them either. Count your blessings that you live in this country. The places I’ve traveled to… they cut your hand off for stealing.”

“I didn’t…”

“Then, who? Are you being mistreated? Are the servants playing games? Tell me, and I’ll have them dismissed right now,” he reprimanded harshly.

Sansa could think of a specific butler that treated her and all the women here like filth since the day she arrived.

“You won’t believe me. You’ll think I’m mad…” Sansa muttered and could feel the tears building in her eyes.

“I’ve seen and experienced many things. Try me,” Lord Petyr said skeptically which didn’t give Sansa much confidence.

Sansa fidgeted with her hands and couldn’t look him in the eyes. “There was someone or _something_ playing the piano downstairs… it wasn’t the first time.”

“Something?”

“I heard it my first night,” Sansa began anxiously, “When I went out onto the landing a maid told me the house was haunted. I didn’t believe it and went downstairs to prove her wrong, and the music room was empty. The floors were oddly warm as she said. She told me Duncan said the house sits on the gates of Hell. I heard a dark laugh and a wail… it scared me terribly. You mentioned that morning that I looked as if I had not slept. There was nothing for days and days, until…”

Lord Petyr sighed in disbelief but listened anyway. Sansa wanted to crawl into that wardrobe forever. She did sound like a madwoman.

“I _was_ in your room,” she admitted with her eyes cast down, “I was only curious what it looked like. I didn’t touch anything but the box for only a moment. I left it there and when I was leaving….” Sansa took a deep breath, “it started playing. I thought someone, even you, were playing a trick on me, but no one was there. And tonight…”

Lord Petyr had backed away and sat down on her bed, crossing his arms. Everything about his posture was pure skepticism.

“If you were so scared the first time, why did you go downstairs again tonight?” he tapped his fingers on his leg.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, “to prove I wasn’t crazy?”

Sansa knew how she must sound to him, but what else was there to say other than admitting to something she didn’t do?

“My lord, there was no one down there. I could hear the music playing even when I broke the vase. I lit a candle, and there was nothing in that room and no other way out. That piano bench was _warm_. Someone had to have been playing. I didn’t imagine it. And then…” she hesitated. This was it, he was going to think she needed to be put away.

Sansa closed her eyes, “I was going to clean up the vase, and something blew out my candle. Right then, I heard a child’s laugh. I’m telling you there was no one there… and then it spoke.”

She glanced at his raised eyebrows in the moonlight.

“It said, ‘ _Don’t be afraid_ ’… That’s when I screamed and ran back to my room. I locked the door, and then I heard _that,_ ” she pointed at the now harmless-looking music box resting on her bed.

“You fainted because you heard this play?” he said with disbelief. “So, someone put this in here and wound the key before you came back upstairs?”

“I don’t know how that got in here, I’m telling you the truth. But…” Sansa hesitated. Oh God, was she really going to say it?

“It wasn’t playing when I came in. It… opened by itself and began to play,” she explained finally looking at him pointedly. “I don’t remember anything after that.”

Hell, even she didn’t believe what she said. Sansa watched him as he mulled it over. Sighing, Lord Petyr stood and walked over to pick up the box heading towards the door before pausing a moment.

“I must admit, Sansa,” he said thoughtfully, “Carefully crafted. However I do not believe in such nonsense. This world is far too complicated as it is to add superstitious rubbish into it. By the way, which maid was it?”

“What?”

“The maid, the first night that told you the house is haunted,” Lord Petyr smiled, but something hid behind that smile giving Sansa pause.

“I don’t want her to get in trouble, my lord,” she offered graciously. There was no reason to get the girl dismissed.

“Hmph. Of course, you don’t,” the marquess smirked. In that one statement, Sansa could tell he was finished with this nonsense. “Certainly, I can question the staff. However I find that it will be your word against theirs and we’ll be right back here.”

“I’m not mad. I didn’t imagine this,” Sansa began to weep. “I’m not mad.”

“I don’t think you’re mad, darling,” he said quietly, “I’m rather disappointed you are so easily convinced of… ghosts or such childish fancies. I believe you were frightened, but let me add to that if I may.” He clutched the box, opening the door and paused with his back to her. “If I find you in my bedroom again, there will be consequences.”

Sansa waited until the door shut when the tears fell, and she couldn’t stop crying. The side of her head hurt more than ever as she sat on her bed. He did say she wasn’t a prisoner here. Sansa could leave anytime she pleased. Granted, it would be a long walk to Riverrun in the cold, but Sansa would force herself to do it. How in God’s name could she live here? Lord Petyr didn’t believe a word she said. Sansa knew she should not have pried into his private rooms. She did not lie when she told him she never took the box. She was unconscious when she presumed he found her tonight. That didn’t seem to phase him at all once he saw the box. Why was a simple music box so damn important to him?

Some time passed when a soft knock sounded on her door, and the gentle voice of Mrs. Ames called her name, “Lady Sansa, may I come in? I have tea.”

Sansa wanted to be alone, but she couldn’t turn away the old woman after she went through this much trouble.

“Yes, of course,” she replied and wiped her tears.

Mrs. Ames shuffled in with the silver tray closing the door behind her. “I waited until his lordship left. He was standing in front of your door for a fair bit. Didn’t think he was going to leave and the tea would be cold.”

He waited in front of her door? Sansa couldn’t fathom why. He was clearly upset with her when he left.

“A quiet one, he is,” Mrs. Ames chuckled setting the tray down on the table. “Always deep in thought. I daresay it was the first time I remember him ever smiling since taking over this place… when you arrived, that is.”

“It wasn’t a smile on his face tonight,” Sansa muttered when the woman handed her a teacup.

“Don’t think on it, my dear,” she smiled, pouring herself a cup, “He is all logic and reason, like so many men.”

The tea was mellow and had a strange under-taste, but the warmth unknotted Sansa’s stomach a little.

“That’s the bishopswort. Lemon balm and chamomile with a bit of honey help the taste,” Mrs. Ames explained. “It will help you sleep and relieve some of the pain.”

“Thank you,” Sansa whispered as a stillness filled the room.

“I’ve been told I listen very well,” the old woman smiled sweetly. “I’ve heard all manner of problems from the girls over the years. Believe me, no man is worth crying over.”

Sansa’s head shot up, “It’s not what you think. I don’t fancy… he doesn’t…”

The housekeeper’s eyebrows rose slightly with a smile. “Yet the look on his face was of pure panic when I came in before you roused to the smelling salts. He was the one to find you, my child. Waking the entire house with his shouting, he was.”

Mrs. Ames was a kind, and the woman meant well, but Sansa didn’t know how much she should say. She enjoyed the housekeeper’s company and didn’t want her or the rest of the staff to think their new mistress was a lunatic. After tonight, Sansa wasn’t quite sure how much longer the marquess would let her stay. She was becoming a more significant burden than he had planned on, she guessed. Strangely, it was a feeling Sansa was getting used to. She never felt genuinely welcome anywhere since becoming an orphan. Both her aunt and uncle gave her the overwhelming sentiment of being burdensome in their households.

Sansa wiped a stray tear and drank her tea. At least her hands weren’t shaking anymore.

“You were ice cold and clammy to the touch. What frightened you, my dear? You’re not the first to have found fear in this house,” she asked sweetly trying to placate her worries. When Sansa didn’t answer, the woman continued on, “Don’t worry, I’m the last woman to think you’re mad. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve witnessed in my lifetime. Some I’ll never be able to explain including a few things since I took my position in this household.”

Her tea was growing cold, and Sansa finally spoke with a sigh. She needed someone to confide.

“There’s something in this house, isn’t there?” Sansa asked softly.

“Yes,” the woman answered.

“I’ve heard that piano play twice now. Both times, there was not a soul in that room. But tonight…” she muttered trying to explain herself for the second time. Continuing, she took a deep breath, “Tonight, something blew out my candle and spoke to me. There was no one there. When I ran to my room, there was a music box next to my bed,” her frightened eyes glanced to the now empty table as Mrs. Ames eyes followed. “It opened by itself and began playing. That’s the last thing I remember before waking.”

“That’s what he was holding,” Mrs. Ames said aloud to herself. Her next words shocked Sansa.

 “Did they touch you?” she inquired next, her eyes stern.

_They?_

“No,” she answered fearfully, unsure what the woman was asking. “I heard a child’s laugh and…”

_And what? She couldn’t tell if the voice belonged to a girl or a boy._

“ _It_ said, ‘Don’t be afraid’…” she whispered.

Mrs. Ames sipped her tea in thought, “Has this happened before tonight?”

“No,” she lied. Sansa didn’t want to tell her about Lord Petyr’s room just yet.

“Before you came to Harrenhal?” the old woman asked, and Sansa was taken off guard.

She had read and heard so many ghost stories and read the faerie tales like many children, but never had she ever experienced anything like this.

“No.”

Mrs. Ames set down her tea and motioned for Sansa to come to sit by her in the light. “It’s all right, child. I won’t hurt you.”

Sansa sat down, placing her tea on the table when the woman took her hands, facing her palms up in the dim light. She watched her nervously as the wrinkled hands traced the lines of her palms and fingers. Mrs. Ames wasn’t from the Riverlands. She was a northerner, too. The herbarium, teas, and now the traditional ways of reading the palms were ways of the clans.

“So much pain for a young woman to bear,” she muttered studying the lines as if they were a detailed map. Her weathered brow crinkled with a frown a few times and Sansa held her breath. Suddenly a small smile crossed her lips, “Don’t despair, my girl. You will find some happiness and even love, passionate love. I see a few children for you as well.”

Mrs. Ames patted her hands reassuringly, but something was hiding behind her eyes.

“We northerners know each other as if we’re family,” she smiled sweetly. “They don’t understand down here or in the south. They’ve forgotten the old ways. Sometimes for the better but not always when they can’t answer questions with God or modern sciences.”

Sansa didn’t quite understand. Her mother practiced the new religion and anything else from the region was treated as nothing more than history. Catelyn Stark wasn’t a northerner, though; she was from the Riverlands. Sansa and Arya learned about the old ways from the servants and common folk yet anytime they asked questions, their mother always hushed it as nonsense… just as Lord Baelish did earlier.

“I want you to listen to me carefully, child,” Mrs. Ames began, “Do not talk to them.”

There is was again… _them._

“They have taken notice of you. It’s better you pretend you don’t hear or see them. They are only interested in the ones that they can latch onto,” the old woman warned her.

“The ghosts?” Sansa asked, her fear returning.

“Oh, there are plenty of those here too,” the woman said glancing around the room. “There are ancient places, my lady – long before the druids of old. Places that remember. Perhaps it is good that new generations are going uneducated orforgetting thus ignoring their signs. People see it as bad luck or maybe the devil, like Duncan. That man sleeps with the Bible under his pillow, I suspect.”

Sansa pulled her hands away. “I don’t understand.”

“Do what the rest of us do, child. Ignore it, even if it is terrifying. Don’t listen or talk to them. They are tricksters and liars. Do not take their help… _ever_. They mostly come at night or when you’re alone, so don’t wander around. If you are scared, you can always come to me. Perhaps I’ll give you a tea at night to make you sleep?” Suddenly the woman smiled slyly, “Once you marry his lordship and spend your nights with him, you won’t feel so alone upon which they can prey.”

Sansa gasped at the thought, “I’m not _marrying_ him.”

“Then why did he bring you here and make you mistress of the house?” the woman chuckled lowly at her naivety.

_I don’t know._

“My uncle… he gambled and lost his estate and me to some men,” Sansa started but couldn’t look the woman in the eyes as she spoke. “Lord Baelish saved me and brought me here as his ward. He said I wasn’t safe at Riverrun.”

“And why would he help a young girl that is a stranger to him? His lordship doesn’t strike me as the gallant hero. Oh, he’s courteous enough and has treated us decently for a titled lord of his stature. However, he seems quite taken with you since your arrival.”

“He knew my mother a long time ago… he’s kind to me because of her,” she mumbled.

“I see,” Mrs. Ames said.

“Could someone, I mean, one of the staff be playing tricks on me? To make me leave? I know Duncan hates me,” Sansa asked nervously.

“That man is an old, grumbling, pious chamber pot. Don’t let him frighten you. I highly doubt the marquess would listen to one word the man says about you. The rest of the staff adores you. I can’t think of why one of them would do such a thing,” she smiled and then the smile died. “Why, my lady?”

“Lord Baelish believes I stole from him and I haven’t,” she whimpered.

“The music box,” Mrs. Ames guessed correctly. “You said it played by itself and was in this room?”

Sansa pointed to the side table and said no more.

“You’ve seen it before, haven’t you?” she queried without judgment.

“Yes. It played by itself then too and I thought someone was playing a nasty trick. I might as well tell you I looked in Lord Baelish’s room last week. I know I shouldn’t have, but I was only curious and nothing more. I swear to you, I took nothing. It frightened me, and I ran out and…” Sansa paused anxiously. “I looked back, in the hallway and there was an odd glow, not from a candle. Suddenly, the door slammed shut. I never went back again.”

Sansa waited for the housekeeper to admonish her for prying into the marquess’ things that were none of her business, but the woman remained quiet in contemplation.

“It wasn’t Duncan or anyone else, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Ames finally spoke with trepidation that made Sansa’s stomach churn. “Remember what I told you, ignore them, and I believe they will leave you alone in time. Do not listen. They are liars, my lady. Do not do anything they ask of you and never take their help, no matter how dire the circumstance. Be careful of the woods, it’s best not to go there alone. They are as ancient as the ruins this house sits upon. I feel it would be best if you did not discuss any of this with his lordship. He will never understand until he sees for himself. I hope that time will never come for both your sakes."

Sansa felt more confused as ever as the old woman picked up the china, setting them on the tray glancing around the room again. The effects of the tea had taken hold, making her eyes glassy.

“So many tragedies in this house. So much sorrow. It would be nice to see happiness prevail here once again. Be merry, my dear. Do not dwell on his lordship’s anger. I think he’ll find he cannot hold any anger towards for your long. He could do with a bit of cheerfulness as well, I gather. There is a sadness he keeps buried deep down even though he tries well to hide it,” Mrs. Ames finished tenderly seeing the girl drifting hazily in her chair.

“Come. Let’s get you to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning, I promise,” the housekeeper spoke softly tucking Sansa in. “Find a kindness toward his lordship, child. I think he cares for you… more than you know. I don’t think it was chance that brought you here.”

Sansa drifted off as the northern woman’s voice became softer with heavy sleep.

“Men often don’t know what they want. They aren’t as complicated as they pretend to be, nor made of iron. An old woman knows these things… for I have seen so much…”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spirit of Hartshorn is an old name for smelling salts


	9. Chapter 9

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Sansa drank her afternoon tea in the library as the warmth of the fire gave little consolation to the dreariness she felt. Days and days had passed since that night as a strange stillness came over the house. She spent her days mainly in the library or playing the piano. Sansa had no fear of this room in the daylight while the music echoed throughout the house. Nevertheless, at night, she could hear those ghostly nocturnes that emanated from below in all their frightening melancholy.

Lord Petyr passed by one afternoon, and then the next day, she spied him leaning against the door as she played. Today he actually came inside, sitting near the window as rain streamed down. He never spoke a word – only listened. The few times Sansa glanced up, he was gazing out the window, his eyes in some faraway place. There was a sadness there, yet she didn’t have the courage to speak to him about such a personal thing. Perhaps, he too had some tragedy in his life. Sansa vaguely remembered Mrs. Ames saying there might be something he was locking away and show him a little kindness.

The man spent most of his day in his study or around the estate. Men would come to the house in regards to business, and most nights Lord Petyr would not return until supper while sometimes he would retire to his rooms leaving Sansa to dine alone.

Sansa glanced around the library. She read so many books to occupy her time. Her new clothes, beautiful and finely tailored, were a silk and lace prison. Unlike her shabby dresses, now Sansa couldn’t help in the kitchen or sit with the women and enjoy their presence. She was now a lady again and expected to act like one. However, that meant loneliness as well. No one came to visit the marquess other than men of the surrounding counties and those he had business matters with.

Earlier after playing in the music room, Sansa made her way up towards her room when she could hear Mrs. Ames arguing down the hallway. It came from the direction of his study. Sansa knew she shouldn’t pry, but she couldn’t help herself after hearing her name mentioned.

“My lord, I have been outspoken and direct ever since I first walked through the doors of this house. Not once, have you ever admonished me for it,” Sansa overheard the old woman speak softly but surely. “I worry about that child. Could she not visit her family or leave with me to the market? Day in and day out she is alone with no visitors and does nothing but play on that piano like a caged bird singing a sad tune…”

“She plays beautifully. This house needs a little music,” Lord Petyr countered tiredly.

“Then you should have hired a musician, m’lord,” Mrs. Ames told him pointedly, and even Sansa was surprised at her candor. Servants did not speak to their masters in this manner, and Sansa waited for Baelish to reprimand her.

“She is safe here, and that’s all you need know. I wasn’t about to leave her in that squalor. I admire your protectiveness, Mrs. Ames,” he said nonchalantly, and Sansa could picture him writing at his desk hardly paying attention to his outspoken housekeeper.

“ _Should_ I be worried about protecting her?” the woman voiced with a sharp undertone.

“I have not nor do I have intentions of taking advantage of the girl, if that is what you’re implying. I’ve dismissed servants for less than the imprudent questions you’re asking me right now. Count your blessings I have respect for your honesty and your role in my employ,” Lord Petyr countered softly. Sansa felt he held some of the same respect for the woman as he seemed to with Mrs. Cole. However, there was a line that Mrs. Ames knew not to cross.

“She is unhappy, m’lord. Surely you must see that. She dines alone, spends the day alone, and bolts her door every night in fear,” she continued.

“Is that why you’re drugging her with that tea of yours?” he asked, shocking Sansa as well as the housekeeper.

“It helps her sleep, that is all,” Mrs. Ames defended herself and then there was a long pause. “Forgive me, I just don’t seem to understand why you have brought her here.”

_At least I’m not the only one that wonders why I’m here._

“If I take her back, she will be cleaning, cooking and tending to her drunken and incompetent uncle until she’s an old woman. She is meant for finer things. She has everything she needs here,” he growled telling the woman he was long finished discussing this topic.

The chair scuffed back, and Sansa knew Mrs. Ames was about to leave his study. She did not want to be caught eavesdropping.

“Not _everything_ , my lord,” Mrs. Ames quipped as Sansa ducked into a dark alcove behind a marble bench.

“Mrs. Ames,” he called out just when Sansa could see her about to pass by.

“My lord?”

“Take her with you tomorrow. Perhaps find some embroidery or something she’ll enjoy. Whatever it is, have it billed to me. _Anything_ she desires,” Lord Petyr said abruptly before Sansa heard his door close.

 

Sansa smiled to herself as the hot liquid warmed her stomach. Finally, she would be able to get away from here, even if only for a few hours. Sansa could send a letter to Uncle Edmure or Mrs. Cole. Running away was not an option after the ill-advised attempt she made from the inn in what like felt ages ago. Even if Mrs. Ames let her go, where would she go?

Lord Petyr was paying all of her uncle’s mounting bills, and he would probably not be pleased with her return in fear the money would stop. Uncle Edmure hated Lord Baelish and refused to let the man take his niece at first. Since her arrival at Harrenhal, not one word, letter, or an attempt to come to for her. Nothing.

Perhaps it was enough to just go to the market with Mrs. Ames without the prying eyes of the marquess. If the man was to be believed, she could buy whatever she wished. If there was an art dealer, she could start painting again. Sansa was no master, but she remembered spending hours in the garden back home, sketching and painting. Sansa did not have the gift for poetry as her musical skills were decent enough, but she always loved art. Had she married Joffrey, she could have spent all her days in the royal gallery.

Finishing her tea, Sansa set the china aside with a half-smile. At least it would be something different, she mused. There was only so much music to play, and reading all the time was becoming tedious. Sansa didn’t know how Lord Petyr spent so much of his time in his study. She would go quite mad.

Sansa was surprised when he came down for dinner. Oddly, she felt as if he was purposefully avoiding her the past week. A little porcelain doll, that’s what she was. A pretty doll dressed in beautiful clothes but never meant to leave the shelf where she had been placed and forgotten.

“How was your day?” he asked as the footman placed soup before him. Lord Petyr laid his serviette on his lap and poured a glass of wine.

“Stimulating,” she quipped with heavy sarcasm and drank from her glass.

“Do the books bore you?” he inquired lightly, and Sansa tried not to roll her eyes. She read more books in the past couple of weeks than her entire life.

“No, my lord. You have quite the library. How could I possibly be bored?” she answered in false politeness and continued to eat her soup.

It was quiet for a time as they awaited the next course, and Sansa could feel a tension growing.

“Mrs. Ames tells me you’re unhappy here,” he said, making Sansa practically choke on her wine.

She had never told the woman that and Sansa didn’t recall Mrs. Ames explicitly saying it in such a way to him in his study. Sansa honestly did not know how to answer him.

“Is your room not satisfactory?” he asked with that unblinking stare of his. “The gowns… not to your liking?”

Sansa could not meet his gaze. “They’re lovely, my lord.”

“Do you miss working as a servant so much that you’re now dissatisfied with going back to your ladylike activities? You’d rather work in the kitchen, is that it?” he smirked as a plate of roasted duck was set before her.

_At least I would feel welcome and have someone to talk to that doesn’t chastise me for every little thing._

“You forget, my lord. I am still only a servant in this house. A pretty gown doesn’t change that,” she tossed back quickly.

God, she wanted to drink that entire decanter of wine right now.

“Hardly. You’re the lady of the house, _my house_ , my dear. A station befitting you,” he remarked and poured another glass for both of them.

“Clearly, I should be grateful for my cage and meaningless title,” Sansa shot back.

“Cage? Yet you have stayed all this time. I said you could leave whenever you wished,” he smiled, and Sansa wanted to toss her wine in his face.

“Oh, it’s a stunning and gilded cage, my lord, but a cage all the same,” she grumbled. “You know very well; I don’t have a choice. My uncle would never take me back now.”

Sansa had tried to convince herself so many times that this wasn't true, but her uncle never wrote nor came to see if she was treated well. Holding out a shred of hope seemed more senseless with each passing day.

“True. I’m sure Edmure believes I’ve ruined you the first night,” he grinned, hitting every one of her nerves. “Ah, but you truly are limiting yourself. You could have an exhilarating life as a governess to some horrible children. Of course, convents are sorely lacking in beautiful nuns. Or maybe a shopkeepers wife?”

Sansa had enough of his banter and insults. She stood up from the table, practically knocking over her chair in the process and strode out of the dining room into the grand foyer. Lord Petyr barely acknowledged her existence as it was, but now she couldn’t handle his offensive line of questioning. What did he expect? Was she supposed to be thrilled at being torn away from her family and thrown into a new home filled with strangers? Strangers and stranger things. Granted, the house was grander than any place she had ever lived and the clothing the finest she had ever owned, but nothing was hers. Everything belonged to him. She belonged to him, and Sansa hated him for it.

Sansa ran out onto the stone terrace overlooking the lake. It was a cold evening and soon the snows would come trapping her here for the winter. At least he would leave, she thought. During his absence, Sansa could think straight yet ever since his return and that night in the ballroom… the man confounded her. She rather liked his companionship when he was in a pleasant mood, but his mood changed on a whim.

The man was an enigma. He expected her to stay. Lord Petyr wanted her to have beautiful clothing and live in his home, yet he rarely spent any time with her. The marquess hadn’t touched her. Only twice did he give any semblance of affection or desire for her. Not knowing his mind was a strange peace and discomfort. Sansa wouldn't know what to do if he ever attempted to woo or seduce her. What on earth did a bachelor want with a ward in her twenties if it wasn't to take advantage of her? 

Her dinner was threatening to come up from the sheer anger that churned inside. Sansa took in deep breaths and walked to the stone balustrade leaning into it.

“If you fall, you’ll tear your dress,” his voice quipped from the doorway. “Not quite the long drop as the Eyrie.”

Sansa remembered that night. She could hardly believe she was contemplating it when he came to her. Lord Baelish had been kind and tender with her that evening of the ball. Sansa was so desperate for anyone to show her some compassion after living under her aunt’s thumb for so long. Now, she wondered what the duchess would think if she knew her niece was living with the same man she fancied. By Lysa’s letter, she was still infatuated, it appeared. Her aunt did invite him for the winter. For all Sansa knew,  Lord Petyr wintering to Kings Landing was a lie.

“I was… unforgivably rude at dinner,” he admitted slowly, interrupting Sansa’s thoughts. “I’m afraid I am not the most congenial of companions for a young lady.”

An owl’s song on the breeze was the only sound to break the eery quiet between them.

“Mrs. Ames is going to Lord Holloway’s Town on the morrow, and I thought you might want to accompany her. Perhaps, you’ll find something of interest to pass the time. Music from the capital, canvas and paints, sewing. I apologize that I haven’t come to know your talents other than the piano… but there are a few shops that may cater to a young lady’s fancy.”

“Happiness cannot be bought,” she retorted coldly.

“The poor would beg to differ,” he replied smoothly.

“ _I_ _cannot be bought_ ,” she rephrased. “You think you can shower and placate me with things… I refuse to be a kept woman. That’s what everyone believes I am.”

Lord Petyr was silent for the longest time that Sansa thought he might have left her alone, finally.

“Come inside, you’ll freeze out here,” his gentle voice spoke behind Sansa’s ear, startling her.

He was closer than she realized when his warm hands touched her shoulders. Refusing to look at the man, she held her rigid stance gazing across the icy waters. The full moon mirrored it’s silver glow on the still, black lake. If it were any other time, Sansa would have thought it beautiful.

“Why am I here?” she said more to herself than him.

Lord Petyr sighed deeply as he stepped closer to her feeling his body heat.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “I thought I knew.”

“I want to go home,” she whispered.

She could feel the warmth of his breath tickling her neck, making the fine hairs stand on end.

“This is your home,” he said regretfully.

“No. I want to go back to Riverrun. Please, my lord. Please take me there,” she begged softly as one hand left her shoulder. He fumbled in his coat pocket retrieving a letter, handing it to her.

“I know you won’t believe me, so read it for yourself,” he told her. “I sent a letter to him the day after I returned… about bringing you home.”

Sansa’s stomach knotted as she opened it, the Tully seal broken. Indeed, it was her uncle’s handwriting, and the words were a knife through her heart. She was ruined in his eyes and now an orphan in every sense of the word. The animosity between these two men was evident, but Sansa never dreamed the last of her family would disown her completely. She hated being a woman. Men did not even require proof of debauchery, only the mere hint of it and a woman’s reputation was forever stained.

“As of now, you are officially and legally my ward, Sansa,” he sighed. “I will do what I can to make you comfortable here.”

Sansa’s knees buckled, and swiftly a strong arm wrapped around her waist from behind. Her uncle’s lazy signature crinkled in her hand as the letter fell from her grasp onto the stone.

“I’m going to be ill,” she grimaced, feeling her stomach lurch. Sansa scrambled to the balustrade leaning over and all too quickly the contents from dinner came up. She felt soothing circles on her back and wished Lord Baelish would stop this newfound sympathy.

Other than her father, Sansa had never been ill in front of a man and hated every second of it. On the other hand, if this didn’t exhort at how she truly felt about having to stay here, the marquess was not a bright man.

Sansa reluctantly took the soft handkerchief he calmly handed her. This was the second time on a terrace that he was kind and gentle yet now she actually belonged to this man. She was more or less his property, as the thought of what that could mean made her stomach churn again.

“Let’s get you inside. I’ll have Mrs. Ames make some tea,” he offered tenderly.

Lord Petyr sat her down on the cozy chaise lounge in the library and called for Mrs. Ames. He drank his brandy while watching her carefully. Sansa was grateful when the housekeeper brought her wonderful tea. She didn’t even mind the strange taste anymore as she almost gulped the hot liquid down. The herbs worked quickly, and she couldn’t wait to go to bed and forget everything.

Lord Petyr walked her up the stairs to her room against Mrs. Ames objections of propriety. Sansa didn’t care anymore. She was sure the entire house believed she was most likely his mistress. A woman of her age wasn’t so much a ward, but a kept woman of sorts to a man not of her family.

She hazily held onto his arm as he opened the door and led her into the bedroom. The tea, combined with the wine made Sansa’s head light and her feet heavy. She doubted she would be able to undress after he left and was content with falling asleep in her gown.

Like a whisper in her ear, Sansa heard a slight childish giggle and froze in her tracks.

“Tell me you heard that,” she whispered.

His lordship turned to her when her arm pulled on his and narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Heard what?” he asked lowly.

Her heart pounded, and a cold sheen was upon her skin when her eyes landed upon the table next to her bed. Even in her addled state, she saw the music box as clear as day.

Sansa tore her arm from his and backed away in fear. “No. No, no, no. I’m not mad,” she mumbled, feeling the hysteria building.

Lord Petyr followed her line of sight and frowned deeply. He strode over to the table and picked up the box. “I thought we were past this,” he growled.

He held it out as he walked towards her, making Sansa cower. “What elaborate excuse do you have for me this time?” he spat calmly.

“Get that thing away from me. I’m not mad, I tell you,” Sansa cried and moved away, afraid of the thing. “I can’t stay in this room. I’ll sleep in the servant’s quarters, I don’t care. I won’t sleep here. I won’t.”

The tea was fogging her vision and mind but Sansa could hear herself – she sounded every bit a wailing madwoman. She couldn’t make out what the marquess was saying as he lay the box on her bed. He came towards her pulling Sansa up, making her involuntarily wince.

“God woman, I’m not hurting you,” she heard him say.

“I want to go home,” she heard herself cry into his arm. “I’m not mad. I’m not.”

The box forgotten, Lord Petyr picked her up when her knees gave out. She didn’t care where she slept, she would be fine with hay and horses just as long as it was not in this room. She felt him haul her up into his arms, but instead of carrying her to her bed, he walked out into the hallway.

It was pitch black when Sansa felt something soft beneath her. With the flick of a match, a pale light glowed upon the silvery walls. Arms pulled her up as she leaned against a broad chest as her head swam with wine and herbs. Skilled fingers unlaced the back of her gown, and Sansa could barely move, let alone defend herself. If this man were going to take her, she wouldn’t be able to stop him.

One by one, her sleeves were pulled down and felt the heavy skirt trail down her legs. Her slippers were gently removed before tucking her legs under the soft linens. Sansa could smell the brandy on his breath as he pulled her up again and began unlacing her corset. Her limp hands weakly pushed him as she tried to voice one word, “ _No.”_

“Sssh, sweetling. Sssh. It’s all right,” the man crooned, pulling the constricting garment away and laying her down onto a billowy cloud of silk.

Warm linens and the heavy duvet covered her in softness as the soft candlelight erased the lines on his face and he looked years younger. He leaned down and kissed her forehead as the words left her lips. “I want to go home.”

She was falling down, deeper and deeper into that dreamless sleep feeling the world slip away.

“You _are_ home,” his soft voice uttered in the darkness. Warm breath caressed her skin as she entered the void. She couldn’t tell if it was a dream when tender lips closed over hers, taking her breath away.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

 

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Wrapped in a silken balminess, Sansa curled into its embrace. This bed felt as though the sun had warmed heaven’s clouds. She did not want to awaken just yet even though she could sense the morning light streaming in the room.

_The room. Where was she?_

Sansa’s eyes opened and took in her surroundings. Light filtered softly through the lacy champagne-colored curtains that left delicate shadows upon the duvet. The bed she lay in was the one she wondered weeks ago about its softness.

On a nearby chair lay her dress and corset, neatly folded and awaiting its mistress. A splash of water turned her head towards the door she knew led to the adjoining wash room. Lord Petyr brought her to _this_ room? Why?

She lifted the bedcovers and discovered she was dressed in her chemise and stockings. He hadn’t touched her. Sansa tried to remember the previous night in vain. Lord Petyr saw the box just as she did and the anger in his eyes was unmistakable, and yet he brought her to his future wife’s bedroom.

“How are you feeling?” his voice sounded from the doorway startling her.

His tone was gentle without a hint of anger, suspicion, or even sarcasm from last night. Lord Petyr was dressed in his shirt sleeves and waistcoat as he toweled his freshly shaven face, readying for the day.

“I have a headache,” she answered truthfully. Honesty was most likely the best option right now.

“Undoubtedly,” he smiled thinly as Sansa unconsciously pulled up the covers. “Shall I inform Mrs. Ames that you shan’t be joining her today?”

Sansa had to admit she truly did not feel up to going to the market, but when would be her next chance to leave the estate?

“No, my lord,” she replied softly, “I would like to go. That is if you haven’t changed your mind.”

“Why would you think that?” Lord Petyr chuckled as he tied his cravat into an elegant knot.

Was the marquess really this obtuse or was he just playing with her?

Without meeting his eyes, Sansa tucked her hair behind her ear and hugged the duvet to her chest. “I just assumed you would be angry with me,” she whispered.

The words he uttered next shocked her.

“Do you really want the music box, my dear? If so – ”

“No!” she breathed in horror that he would even suggest such a thing.

“I see,” he said deep in thought. Sansa could feel his eyes studying her not able to meet his gaze. “You _are_ truly frightened of it, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she whispered, pulling the bed clothes closer.

Lord Petyr tossed the towel aside and sat on the opposite side of the bed, facing away from her.

“So, it comes down to – do you really believe in these ghosts or is someone in the house playing a nasty game with you?” he spoke softly with no note of sarcasm.

“I don’t know anymore,” she admitted, feeling hot tears well up in her eyes. Sansa knew what she saw and heard, yet no one believed her except Mrs. Ames. Maybe she was going mad after all. “What does it matter? You – no one believes me anyway.”

Lord Petyr sighed and laid back onto the mattress, sinking in the silk duvet. He stared at the ceiling for a few minutes in silence before glancing back at her teary eyes and smiled sadly.

“Had I known this bed was so soft, I would have taken this room instead,” he grinned trying to lighten the mood. Sansa wiped her eyes and looked away. She knew he was trying to be kind, but the fact remained he did not believe a word she said, and it hurt. Sansa did not understand why she wanted him to believe her so, or why his opinion was important at all.

He sat up and gently turned her chin to face him.

“No more tears,” he murmured. “I’ll sort this out. When I find who is doing this, I’ll dismiss them immediately. Now, dry your eyes, and I’ll send for Sarah to help you dress. The bath is yours. You can bolt the doors even though I wouldn’t dream of violating your privacy. Perhaps a hot soak will help. I’ll tell Mrs. Ames to wait for you. I think an afternoon away from here will better your disposition.”

Lord Petyr gave her his handkerchief and smiled, but his eyes were forlorn and despondent. He pushed himself up off the bed and returned to the washroom. Moments later, Sansa heard the adjoining door to his room shut.

Several minutes drifted by before she could even muster the will to remove herself from the soft bed. At first, Sansa thought about gathering her clothes and scurrying back to her own room, but the offer of fresh bath was too tempting. She tip-toed into the washroom, finding it empty and made her way to his door. She could hear him inside and slid the bolt in place, securing it.

The porcelain and copper tub was still warm, and Sansa wondered if he had used it this morning already. The idea of a naked man bathing in this room found its way into her mind making Sansa blush. She glanced back to the locked door nervously. He wouldn’t encroach on her, Lord Petyr said, and Sansa believed him. She bolted the other door just to be doubly safe before exploring the pump handle next to the tub. She accidentally touched the copper pipe under the mechanism and hissed. It was hot!

After a few primed pumps, the hot water flowed into the tub. Sansa had never seen anything like it. Water had always been heated by the fire, and it took ages it seemed to have a full bath, hence why sponging was more effective routine.

Pressing the handle down, the flow stopped as she tested the water’s temperature. Steam filled the marble room, and Sansa glanced both doors once again. At last satisfied with her privacy, did she finally disrobe and step gingerly into the tub. The back was high enough that her head rested against the porcelain.Within moments, her stress began to ebb away. Sansa wished Winterfell had a bath such as this. She never would have left it.

Sansa breathed in the heavy steam, letting it relax her further. It had a strange scent she couldn’t place. It reminded her of the salt air when her father had taken them to White Harbor. The smell of the sea, that’s what it was. Strange to sense that so far inland and in a washroom no less.

A small table next to the bath held oils and soaps. A piece of soap had been freshly used, and Sansa left it where it lay. He had used that on himself, she thought. An image came to mind as she quickly pushed it away, grabbing a wrapped piece in paper and twine. Bringing it to her nose, Sansa smiled. She loved lemons, but rarely ever had them so far north. Lemon cakes were always her favorite, and the memory made her heart lighten.

Sansa didn’t lather her hair, not wanting to make Mrs. Ames wait longer than needed for her to change. Unfortunately, the heat of water became tepid as baths never retained heat for long. As expected, a soft knock sounded on the door from the Marchioness’ room, and Sansa knew it was the maid to help her dress.

 

Mrs. Ames smiled as Sansa descended the stairs in her pale green dress and traveling cloak. She didn’t see the marquess anywhere and assumed he was in his study or going about his usual business. Sansa noticed Duncan’s raised eyebrow but she held her head high, ignoring the old butler completely, bustling past him. She wouldn’t let his man ruin her outing. Oddly, it was warmer than usual today in late autumn and Sansa was grateful for it. The young footman, William, helped her into the same carriage she arrived in over a month ago.

Strangely, the carriage ride to Lord Holloway’s Town seemed shorter than she remembered. Mrs. Ames was quieter than usual. If she heard of what happened last night, Sansa was happy they didn’t talk about it. She was sure of gossip spreading that she had spent the night in the room meant for Lord Baelish’s wife.

Hopefully, when they returned, she could find another suitable bedroom to call her own. Regardless of what Lord Petyr had said or what he might be thinking, Sansa wasn’t going to spend another night in that bedroom. Indeed, he did not intend for her to move into the bedroom next to him. That was just where he took her in the spur of the moment, nothing more.

The carriage came to a stop near the market. Sansa looked out the window and smiled. Yes, this would be a welcome distraction, she thought. County farmers, fishmongers, bakers were selling their autumn harvest.

“Come on, dear. There’s much to do today,” the old woman grinned, patting her hand. “His lordship will be leaving soon, I should think. I want to make sure to get as much to stock for the winter. I hate the idea of those poor horses trudging heavy sleighs back in deep snow. Lord Baelish kept the old storerooms beyond the kitchens intact from the original castle. Being out of the way as we are, they come in handy during a harsh winter.”

Sansa followed her and spent a better part of the morning buying dry goods, and plenty of fresh produce and meats to cure. The smallfolk were kind and bowed before her as if she were a lady of breeding. Sansa was thankful or donning her bonnet today for the sun was rather bright made her squint slightly. She hadn’t seen this much sunshine in weeks. Even though the late autumn chill in was ever-present in the air, the sun’s rays graced her face. Many times she felt her head tilting up feeling it’s warmth.

Mrs. Ames handed Sansa the purse of coins Lord Baelish had given her earlier. She remembered Mrs. Cole’s frugality when they went to the market, but Lord Petyr, by the weight in her hand, had given them quite a sum. More than what was undoubtedly necessary. Uncertain of whether to haggle or not, Sansa looked at the faces of the local children playing and the families selling their harvests. The marquess said himself that the crops were not as plentiful this season and knew Aunt Lysa was sending supplies from the Vale.

She paid the man and his expression was of surprise and attempted to hand her back some of the coins.

“No,” she smiled and closed his fingers over the coins. “Take care of your family this winter.”

Each vendor was paid handsomely as they went along gathering their needs, while two footmen loaded the supplies in the waiting wagon. The people smiled and thanked the young woman for her generosity. It made Sansa angry that her own uncle had not been taking care of his small folk. Lord Petyr spent a good fortnight collecting taxes as he had said.

However, with each person she bought from, they thanked her and his lordship for being so generous to them when times were hard. She and Mrs. Ames learned that Lord Petyr had not collected one coin of taxes from the people of the Riverlands. One particular farmer said he paid to have several sick cows looked at. The man gleamed when he handed her a young calf as payment.

“No, no,” Sansa told the proud man. “Keep her with her mother.” Harrenhal had plenty of healthy livestock, and she couldn’t bear to separate the calf from its mother. These people needed milk and meat more than they did.

Occasionally, she could see the old housekeeper smile with pride as Sansa emptied his bag of coins to the local people. The heaviness she felt for weeks was lifted as she smiled more in one morning than she had in years.

After a couple of hours, the wagon was full. Sansa walked with Mrs. Ames around the part of the town that was paved in cobblestone with small shops on either side of the street. All of the money spent except a few guineas, she bought the servants and her old companion a well-deserved lunch by a small patisserie. Children were playing with a few goats nearby, and Sansa thought she could sit and watch them all day in bliss.

Well-dressed gentlemen tipped their hat or bowed as they passed by and Sansa almost forgot what it was like to feel like a young lady again. Lord Holloway’s Town was a cry different than the those near the Eyrie or even the small villages close to Riverrun. No one called her a dirty northerner, whore or gave her a look of disgust. Here, she was treated like a well-bred lady

Sansa wondered how much influence Lord Petyr had among the people. He had shown them generosity and kindness, and she could see the respect they had for their new lord. It was beginning to remind her of home and the way her father and mother treated their small folk. Father had told them you can gain loyalty and respect if you give it out before you expect to receive it. Perhaps Lord Petyr was not the man she imagined him to be after all.

Their money spent, Sansa wandered around a few shops with no intention of buying at all for herself. She passed Mr. Wiltshire and let him gush over how lovely the clothing turned out. As much as he tried to get her to come into his shop, Sansa politely declined as she saw a textile shop and wanted to look at the lovely fabrics and colorful threads for embroidery.

Another door down and she sighed but not in disappointment. In the window were paints, brushes and a small easel is what she intended to purchase for herself today. The smiling, happy faces of the locals were worth so much more than her selfish desires. The shopkeeper asked what she would like, and Sansa was about to decline when a soft voice sounded behind her.

“My lady is expanding her talents in the arts. What would she require?” Lord Petyr asked the man.

Where had he come from? Sansa stood flustered and unable to utter a single word.

The clerk’s eyes widened in excitement, “Why, my lord, it would be best to start… small, perhaps? Is the young lady a novice?”

“I’m not greatly skilled, yet I do love to paint,” Sansa began timidly waiting for Lord Petyr’s lead. He only smiled and nodded for her to continue. “I had an easel about this size back home and used oils similar to this…” she spoke softly glancing back to her benefactor unsure of how to proceed.

The clerk grinned, “Well, my lord, the lady seems to know what she wants…” The man waited as they both watched the marquess mull it over as if he were going to haggle as most men tended to do.

“Whatever my lady wishes,” he teased lightly. Lord Petyr was only pretending to play arduous and for an odd reason, it made Sansa blush. Who was this man, and what happened to the cynical, quiet one that rarely paid her any mind?

The clerk gleefully packed up several items as Sansa picked out colors, oils, and brushes she would need. Sansa caught the marquess from the corner of her eye as he watched her from a distance. It was rather curious that he showed up just now.

In no time, everything was paid while one of his footmen was packing it in the wagon with all the other goods.

Sansa followed Lord Petyr out to the street when he waited and held out his elbow in gesture. This was a far cry from the first time she was here with him. Sansa wasn’t wearing an old wedding dress, there was no anger between them or any awkwardness at all. Sansa took his arm as they crossed the street to the textile shop she passed earlier. How long had he been watching her?

“Did you just arrive?” she asked, hoping not to sound anxious.

“Oh, I’ve been here all morning. A few matters to attend to,” Lord Petyr spoke casually as if strolling with a traitor was completely natural. “I didn’t realize you were going to take a swim in my bath.”

Sansa flushed scarlet as he chuckled lightly. Opening the door to her enter the shop first gave her a moment to recover.

“I don’t want to assume all women love a needle and thread, but you stood outside for a few minutes… anything here you might like as well?” he teased lightly as Sansa willed herself not to blush again.

“Oh, I’m fine, truly, my lord. The paints are more than enough. You don’t need to buy me anything,” she uttered bashfully.

“Frugal, are you?” he smiled knowingly, and Sansa’s stomach clenched. “Well, considering how much you spent at the market, I’m betting my purse is quite empty.”

Sansa was speechless. Was he angry that she was overly generous? Of course, he would want to know how much she spent today, she chastised herself silently.

She must have looked like a fish out of water the way her mouth was open, and not a single word could be formed. He laughed loudly this time, taking her gloved hand and kissing it gently.

“Come, my dear. One would think that you expected me to reprimand you like a child in public,” he chuckled softly. Sansa wasn’t sure she liked this side to him. He was completely different. This was not the man that used her as a gambling wager in Riverrun, or the one that practically insulted her at dinner or livid because of a little wooden box.

The gentleman in front of her now was playful, flirtatious and not a tiny bit angry that she had spent all his money, not just on supplies but literally giving it away to his small folk.

Lord Petyr leaned in close to her ear and whispered, “I knew you were brilliant, sweetling. Such acts of generosity and kindness do not go unforgotten when one governs over their lands. It’s not buying loyalty necessarily.  However, treating your people well gains respect instead of having to endure a tyrant. If your people can feed their families, take care of their homes, they will only work that much harder knowing they have a lord that treats them with a fair hand. The people here haven’t seen that in many generations, I’m betting. And when the time comes that you need the backing of the people, you will find that you shall have it almost voluntarily.”

“Is that why you did not collect taxes while you were away?” Sansa asked before stopping herself.

“Very clever, indeed,” he smiled. “Such intelligence and observation deserve a little gift, I think. Pick out whatever you like.”

“Trying to win my loyalty and respect as well?” she teased back, fingering a few brightly colored threads.

“Perhaps, one day,” he mused. “For now, I wish for you to pick out what you would like that may give you more comfort at home.”

Not his home… _just home_. Lord Petyr was always telling her Harrenhal was _her_ home now. He wanted her to be happy or at least content. Sansa made her selections and decided to let it go. He was going to leave soon, Mrs. Ames said. She might as well have something to occupy her time in the coming lonely months of winter. At least, during his absence, Sansa could spend more time with Mrs. Ames and the other women. No one would be calling while he was away. There wasn’t a soul that wanted to call on his ward, of all people.

Once again, Sansa took his arm as she roamed with him down the street. Locals greeted him as they passed, and it was as if Lord Petyr were more than just a county nobleman. He was Marquess and Lord Paramount, but it was if they were royalty walking around the small town.

The afternoon grew late, and Sansa knew they would have to head back to Harrenhal. She saw the carriage ahead and one of the footman holding the reins of two stunning horses next to the wagon.

“I have one more small gift,” he said with a grin as they neared.

“Please, my lord, you have given me enough today,” she said, trying not to sound ungrateful.

Lord Petyr took the reins of a beautiful grey mare bringing her to Sansa.

“You asked me once if you could go riding,” he began, “and I realized that we didn’t have a proper saddle for a lady. I certainly cannot have you riding astride like men. So, I had this made for you.” He ran his gloved hand over the shiny leather. He handed her the reins of the gentle mare. “What good is a saddle without a horse fitting for a lady?”

Sansa was stunned. This lovely, sweet creature was hers. Her own horse. Sansa had to leave her own behind after her family was killed. Her gloved hand ran down the smoky face, and Sansa couldn’t stop smiling. She had black stockings, mane, and tail. The animal took to her new mistress immediately.

“They’re Arabian. Very gentle and _loyal_. A gift from a good friend of mine, in hopes of breeding them here,” the marquess explained.

“Hello,” she whispered, petting the mare softly around the muzzle.

“Do you wish to ride her home? Unless you’re tired and would rather take the carriage,” he offered. Sansa didn’t need to think twice.

She flashed him a brilliant smile that she had no intention of hiding. Gathering her skirts, Sansa let him lift her onto the saddle. It took a couple of minutes to get used to the side saddle again and let the mare adjust to her commands.

Lord Petyr mounted his black stallion and instructed the men to take Mrs. Ames and the goods home as he would ride back to Harrenhal with Sansa.

“Ready?” he asked with a grin.

“After you, my lord,” she smiled back.

She eased the horse to trot alongside him as they eventually passed the carriage and wagon. Soon enough they were alone on the road back home.

“Did you enjoy the day?” he finally broke the silence.

“Yes,” Sansa answered truthfully, smiling to herself. It was the best day she had in a very long time. Today, Sansa felt as if nothing horrible had ever happened to her.

“Good,” he replied, staring at her. “I prefer seeing you smile.”

Sansa petted her mare’s mane. “You didn’t really buy her for me, did you?”

Lord Petyr raised his eyebrows in surprise but didn’t lie to her.

“No,” he admitted honestly. “But, I can’t see her with anyone but you. She belongs to you.”

“Is she really mine?” Sansa asked and couldn’t stop the litany of questions. Why couldn’t she just be happy in this moment?

“Will you believe me if I say yes?” he chided playfully, but a tone a seriousness underscored his meaning.

“I believe you,” Sansa half smiled and started into a gentle canter gaining ahead of him.

Catching up, he came closer alongside her. “No, you don’t,” he pressed.

“You don’t believe me when _I_   tell you the truth,” she tossed back at him, wondering why she was baiting him for an argument.

“Sweetling, trust me when I say you don’t want to know the truth,” he laughed sarcastically.

“You know nothing about me or what I want,” Sansa said with a layer indifference.

“Don’t play coy with me,” he warned.

“I’m not playing. In all this time, have you bothered to learn anything about me? You have barely spoken to me since you brought me here,” she shrugged, not looking at him but could feel the marquess’ penetrating stare.

“This is not a game you want to start with me, my dear,” Lord Petyr retorted coolly and was silent for a long while. “Regretfully, it was not my intention to be so aloof. Clearly, my attempt to make amends today is failingly dismally.”

_Ah, so that’s what this is. Lord Baelish is feeling sorry for you because he thinks you’re probably going mad and doesn’t want to put you in a sanitarium… yet._

“So buying me things to keep me occupied and out of your hair is _making amends,_ ” she laughed bitterly.

“God, woman – why do you have to make everything so bloody difficult,” he huffed in annoyance. “Is it so terrible to let this day be enjoyable? We were doing well earlier, why did you have to go and ruin it?”

“I was doing quite well until you showed up, thank you,” Sansa said haughtily.

“Ah, so you don’t want my company, and yet a moment ago you just admonished me for ignoring you all the time. I’m not a mind-reader, which is it?” the marquess tried to laugh, but Sansa could feel the underlying tension in his tone.

It had been a lovely day, she admitted to herself including the pleasure of his company. In fact, Sansa liked very much how he treated her today. It wasn’t the gifts, it was that he approved of the way she handled the locals and used the money for others and not herself. There was something that made her stomach giddy, knowing he was observing her the entire time in town before making his presence known.

Sansa had to concede the notion that she did like this side to him. The mare was not intended for her and yet Lord Petyr decided to make it hers anyway. Perhaps he was worried that she was too close to losing her mind back at the house and that’s why he was here riding with her now.

“If you insist on giving me the silent treatment, then you’ll forgive me if I ride ahead. Some matters require my attention before supper,” he said abruptly. Before waiting for Sansa’s reply, Lord Petyr jabbed his horse, leaving her behind.

Perhaps, she had been the rude one just now. Maybe his lordship was genuinely trying to be kind while Sansa threw it back ungraciously in his face. Stubbornness ran deep in her family; she knew all too well. Harrenhal was her home now, whether she liked it or not and Lord Baelish was her benefactor.

_Find a kindness…_

She heard Mrs. Ames voice in her head over and over.

Sansa took off in a full gallop to catch him up. The cold air nipped her face as the mare was faster than any horse she had ever ridden. She had read about their strength and endurance, and or once, it wasn’t a lie. For a moment she was lost in it, as the mare closed the distance. Sansa missed riding very much, and instead of slowing down, she passed Lord Petyr.

“I thought you were in a hurry to get home,” she called back with a smile before focusing on the road ahead.

She heard him yell “Ha!” and looked back to see him gaining on her. Sansa felt her bonnet fall off, with only the green ribbon keeping it about her neck as her neatly pinned hair whipped in the breeze.

“If you fall off, don’t cry and blame it on me,” he chuckled coming alongside her again.

“I’ve been riding since I was a child, catch me if you can,” she challenged.

“Yet, I ride a thoroughbred stallion. Meant for speed. Lesson one, sweetling, never bet against what you know you cannot win,” Lord Petyr teased and began pulling ahead.

“Just like all men – underestimating females until we leave you in the dust,” Sansa needled him. “Come on, girl, let’s show these boys up,” she said, leaning down to the smoky mare.

A quick jab and her horse charged forward at breakneck speed. Sansa held on tight and could see Harrenhal just ahead. She grinned back at the marquess as she pulled away and then he gained again. The stone bridge neared as Sansa guided her to the left of it.

“Sansa, no!” Lord Petyr yelled right before she squeezed her thighs and leaned down as her mare jumped the creek.

Baelish followed as his stallion leapt across and closed the distance for the last time. She veered towards the stables instead of the front of the house. Only barely did she beat him but beat him she did. Out of breath and bringing her mare to a stop, Sansa couldn’t stop laughing.

“You reckless woman,” Sansa heard him chuckle behind her.

“I knew she could do it,” she smiled and leaned down to the mare’s ear patting her neck, “ _Couldn’t you, mo chailín deas?_ ”

Lord Petyr dismounted and handed the reins to the stable boy before coming to her side smiling. “Yes, she is.”

That surprised Sansa. Not many that she knew of understood the old tongue. Her mother wished against it, but Father insisted the children learn it for the onrtherners still used the language frequently. Baelish helped her down, and there was something in his eyes that made her tummy flutter. He was referring the horse a moment ago, wasn’t he?

Sansa cleared her throat and untied her bonnet, stepping away. “I think I’ll bring her some carrots later. She deserves it,” she said, avoiding his eyes.

“After making her run all this way, I would hope so,” he chuckled as they walked from the stables towards the back terrace of the house.

“Sore, that I beat you?” she laughed, taking off her gloves.

“Perhaps I only let you win?” he countered lightly.

“Oh no, I walloped you easily…”

Sansa didn’t get to finish that sentence when he whipped her around behind a tree, and before she knew it, his mouth was on hers. For a moment, she struggled, but it only caused him to tighten his embrace. Lord Petyr’s lips were soft, and this time Sansa could taste the mint that always seemed to scent his breath. He shouldn’t be kissing her, and she shouldn’t be letting him, her mind raced.

Sansa couldn’t remember the last time she was kissed and forgotten how nice it could be when the man knew how. She was lost in him and yielded to him for a heartbeat until a nagging voice in her head told her this wasn’t right. He shouldn’t be intimate with her. She was his ward after all, and he wasn’t courting her.

She pulled away breathless and blushed a deep shade of red. Sansa could not meet his eyes as suddenly the moment was gone. She didn’t know what to do or say to the man standing with his hands still resting on her waist.

“It’s getting cold,” she said stupidly trying to find her voice.

Finally, he released her and stepped away.

“Yes, we should go in,” he acquiesced. Lord Petyr offered his arm once again, but this time Sansa didn’t take it instead fidgeting with her gloves as they walked up to the terrace steps. “I told the maids that you decided on another room. You have your pick of any in the house, of course. They will move your belongings whenever you please,” he offered to try to deflect from what just happened between them.

“Thank you,” Sansa replied but still couldn’t think of what else to say to him. Should she tell him that what he did wasn’t proper and shouldn’t do it again? Should she ask him why? Her stomach fluttered once more, putting her nerves on edge. It was probably best she didn’t know his mind. Perhaps it was just a spur of the moment fancy and nothing more.

Unconsciously, Sansa licked her lips, still feeling that light tingle as Lord Petyr opened the door for her. She followed him down the gallery to the stairs when he suddenly stopped and cleared his throat.

“I have much to do, my dear,” he offered formally. Whatever happened between them outside was a distant memory it seemed. “I will see you at dinner.”

The marquess took her now cold and trembling hand to his lips although his eyes never left hers for a second. Sansa felt her lips tingle again and could only nod as her voice was bottled up completely. She watched him ascend the stairs and disappear around the corner when a cough sounded behind her.

Duncan’s disapproving glare made her anxious and wondered now what everyone must be thinking today. Lord Petyr had taken her to his future wife’ bedroom for the night. She bathed in his washroom. It wouldn’t be surprising at all if they saw the two of them racing towards the stables. Sansa couldn’t help wonder if that kiss was also observed.

Sansa climbed the stairs and wandered around the other empty rooms. She could hear a few giggles from the upstairs maids and the idea was sickening that they thought she was either trying to seduce the marquess or he made her his mistress. It wasn’t as if Sansa had to keep up appearances to appease her family or the ton. They were servants, and she shouldn’t care what they thought of her. However, whispers of wantonness, impropriety or that she was simply out to have a wealthy man take care of her hurt regardless who implied it.

A room dressed in shades of blue on the south end of the house and much further from Lord Petyr’s suites seemed fitting enough. Perhaps choosing this room and putting some distance between them was a good idea.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mo chailín deas = my lovely girl


	11. Chapter 11

 

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After breaking her fast alone, Sansa joined Mrs. Ames in the greenhouse storing the freshly dried herbs and medicinals for winter. She wanted to learn more about the tinctures and recipes the old woman brought down from the north. Mrs. Ames had plans for the gardens come spring and expanding the varieties. It made Sansa long for winter to be over before it even began.

The less she had to go into town, the better, Mrs. Ames told her. Somehow, Sansa felt it was more to avoid questions about her purchases than the journey itself. Duncan seemed overly critical of the housekeeper’s apothecary ways and insisted the local doctor and priest be summoned instead of the woman’s remedies. Sansa laughed because the butler was more archaic than anyone. Duncan didn’t appear to approve of anything in this house, and Sansa wondered why Lord Petyr kept him as majordomo.

“You seemed to enjoy yourself yesterday, my dear,” Mrs. Ames smiled as she stored away seeds.

“Yes,” Sansa answered in kind, “It felt wonderful to be outside and away from here for a spell.”

“I didn’t expect to see his lordship. Lovely gifts he bought for you, especially the mare,” the old housekeeper teased.

“He shouldn’t have,” Sansa blushed remembering the race and a stolen kiss behind the oak tree.

“Why ever not? Perhaps he wishes you to be happy,” she asked, pulling out a mortar and pestle.

“He’s probably praying he doesn’t have to lock up a madwoman adding to more gossip,” Sansa laughed cynically, opening the recipe book. She knew Mrs. Ames had pestered him to let her go into town.

“Do you wish to talk about it?” Mrs. Ames asked slowly.

An uneasy silence permeated the cold greenhouse. Sansa didn’t know if she wanted to relive it or not. She was more concerned about the kiss yesterday and how to act around him than anything else.

“It must have been serious enough that you slept in the mistress’ chamber. The maids were all a chatter yesterday morning,” she pressed lightly. Sansa could say she did not wish to discuss it, but she had so few people to talk to as it was.

“I can only imagine the sordid gossip from the whispers I heard upstairs last night,” Sansa muttered angrily. “Lord Petyr was… a complete gentleman. Nothing improper happened. Perhaps I should have been more careful. Your tea and the wine made me ill. That is all.”

“So ill that he ordered them to move you to another room?” the woman asked knowingly.

“I asked to be moved. I don’t care for that room,” Sansa whispered, feeling she could not lie convincingly to her old confidant.

“It’s alright, child. You don’t have to explain why. I understand,” she smiled, crushing a mixture of seeds. “Which room did you choose? I suppose he let you have your choice.”

“The blue room,” Sansa answered.

Mrs. Ames froze in her task, “The one on the southern end?”

“Yes, why do you ask?” Sansa’s stomach clenched.

“Why did you choose that room? Did he show it to you specifically?” the woman continued her strange inquiry.

“No, I wandered through the rooms, and it seemed nice enough,” she replied.

_It’s a good distance from my old room – and him._

“The door was open?” the old woman frowned making Sansa anxious.

“Should it not have been?” Sansa wondered with growing unease.

“Only two people have skeleton keys. Lord Baelish and I,” Mrs. Ames paused with a fearful look that made Sansa shiver. “That door has been locked for months.”

Sansa’s breath was shallow and fast as she closed her eyes. “Why?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“It’s the most haunted room in the house, child,” the northern woman mumbled. “It’s _her_ room, hence why I keep it locked.”

“Who?”

“The burning girl.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa opened the door and tentatively stepped inside the blue bedroom. The afternoon sun streamed through the lace curtains filling it with light. The cherry-stained wood contrasted against the pale and dusky blues with hints of cream and gold that made the room inviting. 

She slept perfectly last night, and Sansa couldn't understand it. The bed wasn’t as cozy as her previous room, but it was more than suitable. She wished she could have the mattress from the marchioness’ room. That was the equivalent of sleeping on a cloud. Most importantly, though, there was no pesky music box making its magical appearance. No childlike voice giggling in her ear. So far , nothing seemed amiss in this new room.

 _The burning girl_ – a ghost, spirit.

Whatever had taken ownership of this room, was frightening enough that even Mrs. Ames chose to keep it locked. Sansa was about to call the maids and move her belongings once again when that deep, masculine voice spoke from behind.

“I suppose I should have let you choose what room you preferred from the beginning. I almost forgot about this one. Feels more suited for a man, but if it’s what you like, then it’s yours of course,” Lord Petyr mused looking around the room.

Damn. What was Sansa supposed to do now? Tell him she didn’t want it after all because it was haunted? He would send her to an asylum for sure if she told him the truth.

“The bed isn’t very comfortable,” she said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. Perhaps it would be enough to move once again.

“Oh?”

Lord Petyr sat on the bed and laid back. Sansa thought he was undoubtedly going to chide her for being so fussy. It was better to be considered of as too demanding than crazy.

“I’ll have the mattress switched for you,” he offered without a thought.

“Oh no, I don’t wish to be a bother. I can just move rooms. I’ll move my things, myself,” Sansa rushed her words, making him raise an eyebrow.

“You chose this room. Moving the mattress is not an issue. It will be done today,” Lord Petyr said with a tone of finality. “I’ll not have you feeling that the servants are being burdened with your comfort.”

 “Perhaps I was a little hasty because I was tired from the market,” she muttered trying another tactic. “I’m not positive I like all this blue. You’re right, it is a little masculine.”

Lord Petyr stood up and gestured to follow him across the hallway to another door. Inside, it was almost a mirror image of the room they just left, but instead of blue, a dusky rose damask felt more feminine. Sansa didn’t quite remember this room, maybe she _was_ overly tired last night.

The mattress was the same, yet Sansa wasn’t about to say one word in complaint. She might be across from a room that scared even Mrs. Ames, but at least it would return to being locked. Sansa cringed inwardly. If she pressed the issue any further, surely he would suspect something else was wrong. After the other night and how kind he was yesterday – Sansa felt between a rock and a hard place.

Sansa smiled, sincerely sitting on the bed. “This will be perfect,” she thanked him.

There was a sculpture on the table depicting Venus entangled with Mars in a lovers embrace, but that wasn’t what made her blush. The painting behind Lord Baelish above the mantel was that of a nude woman lying prone on a lounge with her legs parted. His eyes followed hers, and he stood silent for a moment.

“It’s a Boucher. _Petite Maîtresse_ ,” he explained before sitting next to her on the edge of the bed admiring the work of art. “Marie-Louise O’Murphy, one of King Louis XV’s mistresses. The rumor is this painting roused the king to have the virgin girl brought to him as a courtesan. She also happened to carry a family name that was reviled by those in court.”

Lord Petyr continued on thoughtfully, “Bore him a child, which was taken away from her. A few years later she made the mistake of trying to unseat his favorite mistress, Madame de Pompadour. Rather quickly exiled from the court of Versailles and was forced to marry several times over including, at the age of close to sixty, I believe, a husband eight and twenty years her junior.”

Sansa stared at the young girl with her delicate, porcelain skin. She had no idea what posing for this painting meant for her life. The old woman, if still alive, probably wondered what her life would have been had not for the lust of a king or the jealousy of a favored lover intervened.

_A family name that was reviled…_

Sansa felt for the young woman. She knew how it felt. It seemed anyone with a northern name or history was an outcast to the rest of the aristocracy no matter which kingdom they lived.

“She is so innocent,” Sansa whispered in despair, “Frozen in time. She will never know how ugly the world can be. I wonder if she could go back to this moment, with full knowledge – would she still have chosen to pose for the artist?”

Lord Petyr crooked his head and stared at Sansa with a slight crease between his brows. He tipped her chin, turning her to face him.

“We don’t always know where our decisions will take us,” he said, and there was that sadness again in his eyes, he always tried to hide.

“Or if our choices are stolen from us?” she replied serenely. Sansa wasn’t accusing him, not really.

He smiled thinly, but his answer surprised her.

“And if it could be given back to you? The power over your life?”

The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable in the charged air between them.

“Given, _how_? I have nothing and no one,” she frowned.

His lordship leaned forward as Sansa held her breath, and her stomach fluttered even when his lips met her forehead. There was something in the way he smelled. It was the soap from his bath yesterday that reminded her of sandalwood, and it was intoxicating.

He leaned back and stood from the bed, leaving her flustered. Lord Petyr stopped at her door and turned slightly.

“You couldn’t be more wrong,” he said before disappearing around the corner.

 

* * *

 

 

Tranquility came over the house that day. Sansa embroidered as he read by the fire, and at dinner, they discussed music and art. His knowledge was extensive as he spoke of the pieces he had collected at his townhouse in Kings Landing. New music was all the rage in the capital coming from across the sea from other countries. Sansa had never seen an opera or a play. It was one of the few things that excited her about moving to the palace. The royal family attended many galas as composers and playwrights sought them out to finance their works.

Sansa wondered what it would have been like to explore the city with a man like Lord Petyr. She couldn’t imagine him being boring at all. There was a definite change in him the past two days. Sansa wasn’t sure if it was out of pity or fear of her mental state that had him so pleasant and warm in her company.

The days passed as they fell into a comfortable routine. Lord Petyr spent most of his mornings on business affairs and afternoons were meant for her. They would stroll the gardnes or ride around the estate. Sansa would sketch or embroider while the light was good and other days Lord Petyr would sit and listen to her play the piano.

They didn’t always talk and tended enjoyed the silence. It was nice just having someone there even if they were both reading in the library after dinner. He was kind, warm and funny she discovered and wondered where this man had been hiding all this time. Sansa could barely remember what he was like before and hoped that side of him had no intention of returning.

One afternoon, Lord Petyr had fallen asleep listening to her play, and Sansa couldn’t help but observe him so unawares. She quietly fetched her drawing paper and sat down on the edge of the chaise lounge that he was dozing on.

It was a cloudy day, but light enough to sketch. He had a straight and aristocratic nose and sharp features. She hadn’t noticed before how long and dark his eyelashes were as she added depth to his eyes and brow. Lord Petyr’s hair was thick with just a slight curl even where his temples were beginning to grey.

His lips were slightly parted, and they weren’t too thin but were not full and pouty either. He had a very masculine mouth with the late afternoon shadow that was growing. Lord Baelish could grow a moustache and probably look older and more distinguished if he wanted, but Sansa preferred him as he was now. Despite his age, he still had smooth skin and sometimes a quality that made him appear younger than his years.

Sansa had been so focused on getting his mouth right, that she didn’t notice him watching her intently.

“Oh!” she laughed nervously, “You scared me.”

“Have you drawn horns and hooves on me yet?” he grinned, and Sansa felt a little flutter.

She hugged the drawing to her chest, not wanting him to see. It wasn’t nearly as good a likeness yet since she hadn’t added much shadow and details.

“It’s the tail I’m having trouble with, actually,” she teased with a blush.

Lord Petyr sat up and stretched a bit.

“Give us a look,” he smiled, reaching for the drawing.

“No! It’s not good,” she tensed, standing up from the lounge and retreating away.

“Come now,” he jested, moving towards her as she backed up slowly, “It can’t be that bad. I’m not the most handsome fellow. So unless you’ve made me a gargoyle, I shan’t be offended.”

“An artist doesn’t show her work until it is finished,” Sansa protested as she neared the fireplace holding the drawing behind her back.

“Ah,” he grinned cornering her until she could feel the fire’s heat on her backside. “And when shall you be finished, _Mademoiselle_ _Giroust_?”

He was harmlessly flirting, she knew, but it made her anxious all the same as he came so close that Sansa could smell that sandalwood soap of his.

“I – I don’t know, my lord,” she stammered.

“ _Must_ we be so formal with each other,” he taunted. “I’ve been calling you by your given name for some time.”

_And you call me sweetling and my darling which is far beyond even informal decorum._

“But it still isn’t proper, my lord –“ Sansa weakly protested as she could almost taste that mint again and felt a heat near her hand.

“Call me, Petyr…” he whispered, lowering his head.

Sansa wailed almost colliding her head with his as the paper had caught fire in her grasp. The drawing was engulfed in flames as it fluttered down to the floor and Petyr stomped on it before patting down a part of her silk skirt that had caught fire as well.

The commotion drew the attention of Duncan and one of the young footmen to the room.

“Is everything all right, my lord? We heard the lady scream,” the old butler asked in mild concern, and Sansa tried not to scowl.

“Everything is fine. Lady Sansa was a bit too close to the fireplace is all,” Petyr waved them off impatiently.

The men dismissed, Petyr bent down and picked up the remains of the drawing and smirked.

“A cyclops?” he chuckled. “And I was so anticipating a gargoyle.”

Sansa reached for the burnt paper, but he was quick and tucked it away in his breast pocket.

“Oh no, I should like to keep this, my dear,” he smiled, and Sansa blushed.

She inspected her skirt and saw where a bit of lace and silk had burned away, leaving a hole in the fine material.

“Oh! Look what I’ve done. It’s ruined,” she cried in dismay. This was one of her favourite afternoon dresses with light green and rose flowers.

Petyr bent down, inspecting the garment with an air of nonchalance.

“If you wish, I’ll have another made,” he said, standing up. “Perhaps the tailor will have some of the same fabric.”

“It’s my fault it’s ruined. You shouldn’t need to buy another. I have plenty of beautiful dresses,” Sansa protested. “I suppose I can wear this when helping Mrs. Ames with chores around the house...”

“As you wish, my dear,” Petyr smiled and cleared his throat putting distance between them again. “Ahem, I suppose you’ll want to change for dinner, and I have some letters to write.”

“Of course,” she mumbled. “I think I’ll rest for a bit myself if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he answered, picking up her hand and bringing to his lips. He glanced at her fingers wiping away a smudge of soot. “Did you burn yourself?”

“It’s nothing, really,” she trembled.

“Have Mrs. Ames see to it,” he instructed, kissing her fingers tenderly. Just as quickly, he let go of her hand and left Sansa in the music room.

What was happening between them? Sansa was so conflicted about their relationship. Was she allowed to like him and enjoy his company? She was doing a terrible job at holding a grudge to the man that essentially bought her from her uncle and kept her here, making her his legal ward. He kissed her days ago, and he would have kissed her again moments ago if fate had not intervened.

Mrs. Ames applied a balm, wrapping two fingers with a soft cloth before Sansa retired to her new room. Dressed in only her corset and chemise, Sansa laid on the bed and stared at the painting over the fireplace.

She had judged it too quickly at first but now found the girl’s story and Sansa’s had some similarities. It was so easy for men to discard a woman as if she were nothing. All women were good for was for their pleasure and bearing children. Nothing had changed in so many years it appeared.

Sansa understood why a painting as erotic as this wasn’t hanging downstairs. Father would have never allowed such artwork in the house, and Mother had a taste for Italian artists, especially works depicting religion.

Petyr wasn’t a prude and knew the history of it, but had enough sense that it should be displayed somewhere more private. Each of the guest bedrooms had beautiful paintings on the walls as they complimented the décor. The golds and pastel hues of this painting were perfect for the rose tones of her new room, Sansa thought.

It wasn’t like the nudes Sansa had seen before in Greek and Roman sculptures or paintings. The girl wasn’t just lying there with material draped artistically to cover certain bits or in the traditional languorous poses like some goddess.

What Sansa couldn’t tear her eyes away from was the way her legs were parted as if waiting for a lover and understood why it instilled such a desire for the king wishing to have her. It looked as if you could just tilt your head a certain way and see between those milky thighs. Sansa wondered what it must be like to lie there naked for days while a man painted your in such a way. Was he a gentleman, or did he take advantage of her in her exposed state?

What sounded like a knock on her door made Sansa get up quickly putting on her dressing gown before answering. She looked at the clock on the table. It was growing late, and Sarah had probably come to help her dress for dinner.

“Yes?”

Sansa waited, and yet the door didn’t open. Frowning, she opened the door finding no one there. It was dark outside as only a few sconces were lit in the dank hallway. Perhaps she imagined it while daydreaming about the painting. Sansa closed the door and pulled out a dress from her wardrobe for dinner when someone knocked on the door again. She heard it clearly this time.

“Come in,” she told the maid hearing the door open. “I’ll most likely retire early tonight after supper, so if you could warm the bed, I would be grateful.”

Sarah didn’t answer. Sansa turned around in annoyance only to discover herself alone with the door ajar.

“Sarah?” her voice faltered.

Sansa crept to the door and peered into the hallway once more, finding it empty as before. Not since her last night in the lavender room had anything strange happened at all in the house. Even when she slept in the blue room and Mrs. Ames told her it was haunted, Sansa had expected it and yet nothing happened. She glanced across the hallway, and the door to the blue room was locked.

“ _He lies to you_ ,” a sweet voice sounded in her head freezing Sansa to the spot.

_Do not listen to them. They are liars, tricksters…_

Mrs. Ames’ steady warning echoed in her mind, and Sansa immediately closed the door, bolting it firmly.

“ _He deceives you_ ,” it spoke again.

“Go away,” Sansa whispered and willed herself to tune it out.

_Ignore it, and it will go away. I’ll start drinking the tea again, and it will all disappear. It’s all in my head. It’s all in my head…_

Another knock blared and a fiery, amber glow emanated from under her door from the hallway. The same light she saw in Petyr’s room the first day she saw the music box.

_It’s her room – the burning girl._

Sansa closed her eyes and refused to let anything more frighten her. She would not be weak. She would not let whatever it was run her out of another bedroom. Her mother was right. There are no such things as ghosts or spirits. It’s all in her head. Perhaps she was a madwoman after all because the voice didn’t stop.

“ _To the underworld, he’ll go when the somber music dies. So Persephone must follow, to find her God of lies_.”

Another knock on the door and Sansa mustered whatever courage she had left to open the door still seeing the glow from underneath.

_No! I’ll prove it. There’s nothing there. You’ll see!_

Sansa slid the bolt back and opened the door, yelling loudly, “Leave me alone!”

The maid, Sarah instantly shrank back in fear.

“I’m so sorry, m’lady. You – you asked me to come to dress you before dinner…”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marie-Suzanne Giroust is an 18th century French artist  
> Marie-Louise O'Murphy posed for "Jeune Fille Allongée" (the lying Girl), painted by François Boucher in 1752. She was mistress to King Louis XV, bore him a daughter and was ousted by his favorite mistress, the famous, Madame de Pompadour. The girl married several times then died in 1814, at the age of 77. Her family was Irish and did have a terrible reputation.


	12. Chapter 12

 

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Sansa kept her troubling thoughts to herself at dinner, reading quietly while drinking Mrs. Ames' tea in the library. She let Petyr, as he wished to be called, escort her to her new room. The tea must have been stronger than usual because Sansa didn’t recall much of what Petyr said to her. He said something about going riding tomorrow while the weather was still mild before kissing her hand and walking towards the east wing.

She lay in bed and let the tea work its magic. There was no knocking on her door, no ghostly voice singing riddles in her ear, and finally, Sansa felt herself relax. The flicker of the candle danced on the wall as the embers died in the fireplace. The soft glow created a shadow of the sculpture on the rosy damask as Sansa stared at it with heavy lidden eyes. She could have sworn Mars moved – dipping back the head of Venus. It was only an illusion created by the sputter of the flame as she drifted off.

Sansa woke with a blush already stinging her cheeks and a strange ache in her belly. The tea had left her groggy but felt she had dreamt of kissing. The music room was bathed in the moon’s light as Petyr laid her down on the chaise lounge. His mouth was hot and intoxicating as she wrapped her arms around his neck. There was no nervousness feeling the hard planes of his body on hers. It was when she felt his lips travel down her throat, did she wake breathless.

That morning, Sarah dressed her for riding with her warm wool and fur after breaking her fast. Petyr said he would meet her at the stables when a man from town came to speak with him. She walked to the stables alone, finding the horses waiting patiently. Sansa ran her gloved hands across the smoky mare she named Misty. Petyr was right when he said Arabian’s forged a loyal bond, but it surprised Sansa how quickly it happened. It seemed she always knew when Sansa was coming to the stables.

Some time had passed, and Sansa wondered if Petyr had changed his mind or was too busy for her once again. Both horses were already saddled as Misty was getting anxious. Her mare wanted out, she wanted to run, and Sansa felt that same desire. Fed up, she mounted her horse and took her out along the banks of the lake where she could still see the terrace and stables. Misty was impatient with her mistress’ command of a slow trot and itched to run.

Sansa glanced back to the house expecting to see Petyr, at any moment, come out the back terrace, but the anxious whinny of her mare cemented her decision. Not looking back, she jabbed Misty and let the horse have her way, galloping around the northwest bank of the lake.

Sansa sensed a level of freedom hadn’t experienced in years. Even after racing Petyr home, she had not ridden out on her own. He was always with her, not that Sansa minded. Letting Misty run free, Sansa felt one with the animal and everything around her. As much as her mother desperately tried to instill midland and southern teachings, Sansa would always be a northerner in her heart. Sansa felt no connection to her roots in the Riverlands. She was just as foreign here as in the south.

Riding past the watermills directing freshwater towards the house, she waved at two men fixing a cog. The woods were before her and slowed Misty to a canter. Sansa and Arya played in the woods back home as children and never once did anything terrible happen. Sansa would disappear for hours in the deep thickets and let the peace wash over her. There were few places she could be alone and enjoy listening to the birds and the whistle of the breeze through the trees.

Sansa halted her mare just at the tree line and glanced back at the house. Petyr couldn’t be seen anywhere. She would just go a little further, no harm done, and be back before anyone noticed. Wandering in, these woods weren’t as dense like the pines around Winterfell. These trees were tall, their branches reaching for the grey sky above. Small brooks bubbled nearby as winter birds chirped all around. She would like to come back here in the spring, Sansa thought. She closed her eyes and imagined how beautiful it would be.

A rifle shot rang out in the distance, startling both Sansa and Misty. A blur of grey and white ran past low lying shrubs, and only for a moment was Sansa nervous. It was a wolf, but they were in no danger, for the animal was running away from what was surely a hunter. A second later, another shot fired and a painful yelp pierced Sansa’s ears.

Without a thought to the danger, Sansa rode quickly towards the direction of the sound. Near a massive oak tree cresting a small hill overlooking the lake, she saw the poor creature limping a few painful steps before collapsing.

Sansa tethered Misty and cautiously made her way to the injured wolf. Only steps away, she could see it was a fatal wound, breaking Sansa’s heart. She leaned down and the animal growled helplessly.

“Shhhhh…. Socair – _be still –,_ ” she murmured softly, “Socair…”

The wolf snapped at her hand, breaking the skin on the corner of her palm. Sansa could hear a small yapping close to the trunk as she leaned closer.

“Ní bheidh mé dochar a dhéanamh duit – _I will not harm you – .”_

The wolf relaxed and laid her head in the direction of a small burrow. Inside were two pups. The white one was the one crying for its mother and the other seemingly died from exposure. Their mother must have been hunting for food, Sansa thought with a heavy heart, and now she was dying.

“Girl, get away from there,” a burly voice yelled from a distance. The mother wolf growled in defense, but Sansa placed a gentle hand on her head.

The man walking towards them was reloading his rifle with gun powder, and Sansa stood up quickly blocking the wolf with her body.

“Din’t ye hear what I said? Get away from that wolf,” the man spat yet Sansa did not move a muscle wondering what to do.

“You’ve shot her, now be on your way, sir,” Sansa commanded with as much courage as she could muster, considering she was defenseless with only her horse nearby.

“That damned beast has been killing my chickens for weeks. Step aside, you stupid girl,” he yelled again. The wolf whimpered in pain, trying to reach her pup to protect it even though she was fading quick.

“I will not,” Sansa held her ground as he approached, pointing the rifle at her. Any sane person would just move away. It was only a wolf, and the pup would surely die without its mother, but Sansa wouldn’t let this man kill them. She couldn’t.

“That fucking thing has pups, eh? I said move!” he shouted and tried to push Sansa and she shoved him back as hard as she could.

The pup was trying to crawl out of the burrow. Sansa quickly scooped it up looking at the dying mother.

“Beidh mé a chosaint léi – _I will protect her –_ ,” she told her, and the man whipped her around.

“What is that, some kind of faerie talk?” the foul-smelling man roared, giving Sansa an idea.

“Frightened of the _Tuatha Dé Danaan_ , are you? You should be after killing one of our children. Do you not know where you stand?” Sansa lowered her voice to a deathly tone. The tree was on a small hill near the lake, it couldn’t have been a more perfect place.

 _“Daoine sidhe,”_ she spoke softly, and her eyes gleamed a bit _._ “I should take you for what you have done.”

“Witch,” the man breathed in horror.

“I am no witch. I am _The Mórrígan,”_ Sansa growled ominously. Sansa wanted to laugh at using such old legends to scare a man thrice her size. She thought only superstitious people lived in the north; apparently she was wrong.

The man raised his rifle in her direction terriying Sansa as she held the pup to her chest. This was no longer a game. He was going to shoot her.

Sansa raised her hand and screamed when suddenly leaves caught fire at her feet and the image of a young girl put a hand to his rifle, making it glow a deep red. The man wailed in pain, dropping it to the ground and backing away. Just as quickly as she appeared, the girl was gone, and Sansa was stunned at what just happened.

“Bleedin’ faerie witch…” he muttered in fear and ran to her horse, grabbing the reins.

“Hold there, fellow!” a welcome voice bellowed from a distance and Sansa couldn’t have been more relieved to see Petyr riding towards them. “You are stealing my horse.”

“The – the witch, m’lord… cursed me, she did,” the man backed up and pointed towards Sansa when Petyr withdrew a small musket.

“Witch? What witch?” he smirked in confusion, gazing in her direction.

“There! She’s there, don’t you see her?” the man yelled in panic. Petyr stared at her and raised a knowing eyebrow in amusement. Sansa shook her head slightly holding the pup closer.

“I see a dead wolf,” Petyr answered, playing along.

“Spirit of the wolf, she is… killed my chickens and now she’s cursed me,” he rambled like a madman showing his burned palms to the armquess. “Cursed, faerie folk. Should burn down these woods…”

“I see, well, I’ll take it into consideration. Go home and do not return to these woods,” Petyr warned the man watching him scurry away. “If I see your witch, I’ll be sure to kill her with holy water.”

Once the man was long, out of sight, Petyr climbed down from his horse, walking to the man’s abandoned rifle. Sansa set the pup down and sat next to the mother as she caressed her blood-matted fur. She heard Petyr curse and the thud of the rife hitting the ground. Sansa hadn’t imagined it after all. A girl appeared and made the rifle hotter than forged metal.

The wolf’s labored breathing told Sansa it wouldn’t be much longer. She didn’t want her to be in pain, yet there was no way of saving her.

“Dul a chodladh – _go to sleep_ –,” she murmured lovingly, petting her neck. “Beidh mé chosaint do ghrá – _I will protect your love_ –.”

She felt Petyr stand behind her, but to his credit, he said nothing and simply watched in silence.

Sansa picked up the pup as its mother drew her last few breaths.

“Beidh mé grá di mar mo chuid féin – _I will love her as my own_ –,” she whispered as the wolf’s eyes grew distant and still. “Dul a chodladh, máthair – _Go to sleep, mother_ –.”

The pup howled, and Sansa couldn’t help the tears that rolled down her face. This pup watched its mother gunned down, and now it was all alone in the world – just like her.

She felt Petyr’s gentle gloved hand grasp her shoulder. Whatever else he might be thinking, at least he wasn’t teasing or reprimanding her. Without a single word, he picked up the mother wolf and placed her inside the small burrow with the other pup. Sansa watched in awe as he took a piece of rotten bark and used it as a spade to cover the makeshift grave with earth. She didn’t know why he did it. Even if it was only to placate her mawkishness, Sansa didn’t care. It was a tender gesture, regardless of his motives.

Petyr helped her up and walked her to Misty. He took the little wolf so she could mount the mare and it growled playfully chewing on his finger.

“Here, take her before she eats my hand,” he chuckled softly.

“She?” Sansa raised an eyebrow taking the pup and securing her in her pelisse.

“Appears so,” Petyr answered, mounting his horse. “Do want to tell me what just happened?"

As they rode back to the house, Sansa explained everything. He laughed loudly when she said she pretended to be a faerie goddess to scare the man. However, she left out the part about a fiery girl. She would let him make his own conclusion about the rifle and didn’t mention anything more.

“The wolf is your father’s old sigil, isn’t it?” he asked sincerely.

“Yes,” she whispered in remembrance. “My brother raised a wolf from a pup. A beautiful thing, he was.”

They reached the stables, and Petyr lifted her down from the mare. She flinched when he grabbed her hand a little too tightly. Frowning, Petyr removed her glove discovering a shallow bite mark marring her palm, the same hand she burned in the fire.

“We’ll need to fix that up,” he frowned slightly shaking his head. “For heaven’s sake, don’t drown or fall down a flight of stairs next.”

She couldn’t help but smile as the little ball of fur squirmed and clawed inside her wool pelisse. They reached the house and Petyr opened the door to find Duncan waiting with two footmen.

“Ah, so she is found,” the butler scowled, but Petyr paid him no mind.

“She was down by the watermills near the woods,” he winked at Sansa.

The wolf barked as Duncan frowned in disgust at the animal poking its furry head out.

“She brings a wild animal into this house, my lord?” the butler protested.

“My lady found a little orphan,” Petyr explained, “And it will be welcome in _my_  house. I best not hear of any mistreatment.”

Sansa smiled at the small victory and held the restless animal as Petyr turned to her taking off his coat, handing it to the footman.

“No more exploring the woods alone, my little witch,” he grinned, wiping a bit of dirt from her cheek. “If you’re going to curse the locals, brew a potion that cures silly superstitions and dogmas.”

Duncan stared at her suspiciously as Sansa removed he pelisse and retreated upstairs.

 _To hell with him_ , she thought as she placed the pup on the floor in her room.  Immediately it started exploring her new home. Sansa called the maid to bring her a basin of freshwater and a soap. Her new little foundling was covered in dirt and smelled terrible. Before long, a few maids gathered in Sansa’s room fawning over the latest addition to the house. Once cleaned and dried, her fur was pristine white as her ice-blue eyes stared at her new mother.

“She looks like a proper little lady now, doesn’t she?” Sarah sighed, cuddling the pup.

Sansa smiled, “That’s it, I’ll call her Lady.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Sansa sat down for dinner, it wasn’t long before long, high pitched howls echoed through the house. Lady certainly didn’t like being left alone, she grinned. Suddenly, the grin fell, remembering she had just lost her mother and everything she knew earlier today. Lady wasn’t a domesticated animal, and now Sansa felt terrible, leaving her all alone in her room.

She howled again, and Sansa glanced at Petyr drinking his wine worried that he would be annoyed with the animal and admit it was a mistake bringing her home. A single eyebrow raised at yet another howl and Sansa cringed waiting for the inevitable. Instead, he chuckled, shaking his head in defeat.

“Go fetch her,” he said eyeing Sansa with a smirk.

She flashed him a brilliant smile and left to retrieve her new pet. The little wolf wandered around the dining room sniffing at everything she could get at. The smell of the food on the table was tempting as she decided that Petyr was the alpha male and waited patiently next to his chair. Occasionally, he would look down when Lady would make her presence known.

Sansa stifled a giggle at the whole thing. Lady wanted his attention and his alone. Men rarely showed affection as it was, and here Petyr was, gently shooing the animal, but she proved to be as stubborn as her new mistress.

After several minutes, Sansa heard him sigh and began cutting up small pieces on his plate. Scraping the food onto a saucer, he bent over and set it on the floor next to his chair. The pup wasted no time and devoured the morsels. When Petyr sat back up, she couldn’t help the silly grin on her face. He gave her a mock glare as if daring her to say something but Sansa shrugged tucking into the rest of her supper.

In the library, Petyr read by the fire as he usually did while Sansa sat on the floor and played endlessly with Lady. The wolf found a ball of yarn from her sewing basket. Before long, a lengthy string had wound its way around the sofa. Sansa laughed trying to wind it all as the ball became smaller and smaller.

Exhausted, Sansa leaned against Petyr’s chair by his leg and let the warmth of the fire envelop her. Lady nestled into her lap as tired as her mistress.

Strange, Sansa thought, how this pup had taken to her so quickly –  just as the mare did. She couldn’t remember if the animals back at Winterfell were the same. It was as if Lady had accepted that Sansa was her new mother and fell into contentment. The thought of Lady pestering Petyr at the dinner table made her smile. Whether he admitted it or not, Sansa could tell he would probably spoil this little addition rotten.

“No book for you tonight?” his soft voice asked.

“No, I’m perfectly fine right here,” she answered truthfully. “What are you reading?”

“Poetry,” he replied.

 _Poetry?_   That surprised Sansa. He tended to read the news periodicals when the post arrived, but tonight he chose poetry.

“Goethe? Blake?” she wondered, leaning against his chair petting Lady.

“Byron,” he answered. “He seems to have progressed from meter and rhyme.”

Sansa chuckled, “You don’t care for love sonnets that bemoan of his lady’s hair and bosom?”

“No, do you?” she could hear the smile in his voice.

“Read one to me,” she asked, wondering what kind of poetry had his veiled admiration.

He sighed, and for a moment, Sansa thought he was going to decline. Perhaps he was not a man that enjoyed reciting poetry. She used to laugh at her brothers when their mother forced them to do so in the parlor. Robb, was particularly terrible and Sansa and Arya teased him that he would never be able to woo a girl with such muddied words.

Petyr's voice, however, was smooth and glided over the words as if he were a poet himself. Sansa felt herself becoming lost in his storytelling of an ever-changing dream. Her fingers caressed Lady as she slept peacefully and Sansa relaxed so much that she did not realize she was leaning more and more against his outstretched leg. Petyr’s voice was like a drug, as his soft dulcet tone would rise and fall with a word or phrase anchoring the meaning with thoughtful ease.

Sleepily, she sank against him, as he was softer than the hardwood leg of his chair. Sansa didn’t know when her cheek rested against where his thigh met his knee and did not care. She was tired and listening to him recite the poem in its novel-like length was as calming as Mrs. Ames' tea.

His graceful fingers traced a curl from where her hair was loosely pinned. Today she hadn’t bothered with her hair being perfectly coiffed as playing with a baby wolf all evening had her curls falling down from the jeweled combs, trying in vain to hold them up.

Petyr’s voice ebbed and flowed, painting a picture in her head as detailed as the most delicate brushstroke on canvas and those soothing fingers unconsciously played a silent tune dragging gently through her hair.

 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.  
The Lady of his love;—Oh! she was changed,  
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind  
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,  
They had not their own lustre, but the look  
Which is not of the earth; she was become  
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts  
Were combinations of disjointed things;  
And forms impalpable and unperceived  
Of others' sight familiar were to hers.  
And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise  
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance  
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;  
What is it but the telescope of truth?  
Which strips the distance of its fantasies,  
And brings life near in utter nakedness,  
Making the cold reality too real!

 

Sansa had no concept of time as she drifted deeper into hazy sleep. At some point, those tender fingers stopped and instead closed the book, setting it on the table. Gently, he woke her moving to stand up.

“Come, my little witch,” his voice teased, “Even the evil spirits of the forest have to go to bed.”

Sleepily, she held onto Lady as he helped her off the floor. He took her arm, linking it with his and guided her up the stairs. Once in her room, Sansa set Lady on the bed, and immediately she curled up fast asleep.

“I’ll call the maid to help you undress,” she heard him say stoking the fire a bit.

“No, no, let them sleep,” she muttered and glanced blearily at the clock. It was very late. “I can manage.”

“Of that, I’m am sure,” he chuckled, but his eyes were dark as something else entirely resided there.

It seemed that he wanted to say something more but decided against it. Petyr closed the distance and Sansa held her breath, thinking he was going to kiss her. Instead, he left a dry kiss on her fingers once again, smiled, and left the room with a soft “goodnight.”

Sansa couldn’t describe the strange feeling in her stomach as she undressed. Was it disappointment? She couldn’t understand what was happening. This man that she loathed, in the beginning, was slowly turning her topsy turvy. Is that what happened to people when they were thrown together in a remote place with no one else to socialize with?

She crawled into bed and blew out the candle. Lady yawned and snuggled closer to her new mother under the warm linens, and Sansa felt sorry for this little thing. She probably didn’t fully understand what had happened to her today.

All those concerns and strange feelings drifted away as Sansa let herself finally fall into a deep sleep.

She wasn’t sure what was a dream or reality when her door opened, and Lady gave a little growl. Soft music was playing in the distance as cool hands touched her shoulder.

“ _You must wake, Persephone_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> daoine sídhe or sídhe - faerie folk and also used to describe faerie mounds. Places that humans could enter this enchanted place called the otherworld through burial mounds called sídhe, through caves or lakes, or after completing a perilous journey. After reaching the otherworld, they would live happily for all time or even time could stand still.  
> The Mórrígan – the phantom queen/great queen or known as a goddess of war, sovereignty and protection. Is known to take a few forms, including the wolf. Linked to the banshee whom when seen was a premonition to a person’s death.  
> Tuatha Dé Danaan – children of the fertility goddess, Dana or Danu. A legendary race of people who overthrew the Irish in ancient times. When the Tuatha de Danann was overthrown themselves by the Milesians they took shelter in earth barrows (sidhe).  
> The Dream (VII) – Lord Byron


	13. Chapter 13

 

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Sansa heard Lady growl again, and then a voice that sounded like her own whispered eerily.

“ _Socair, mo cheann beag – be still, my little one – …_ ”

Lady whined a little and crawled back under the covers, and Sansa dared not move. Something or someone was in her room. The piano echoed upstairs and all her fears bubbled up while thunder softly rolled across the sky as the rain began to pour down, beating against her window.

“Who are you?” she finally asked the darkness.

“ _A friend_ ,” the sweet little voice replied, “ _Don’t be frightened_.”

“What do you want from me?” Sansa muttered fearfully, burying her head under the covers.

“ _To help you_ ,” it said with sincerity.

“Why?” she inquired. Why would this spirit, this other-worldly thing want to help _her_?

“ _He lies to you. You are not mad_ ,” it said, not answering Sansa’s question.

“Why me?” Sansa wondered aloud peering over her blankets, finding only darkness.

“ _You are special_ ,” the sweet voice said. “ _You can see and hear me. It’s been a long time since –”_ It paused for a moment before uttering. _“… I had a friend._ ”

“What are you?” Sansa’s eyes scanned the room fearfully.

“ _I don’t know_ ,” it answered sadly and was quiet for a time before adding, “ _You must go now before the music ends,_ _and he disappears_.”

Whatever it was, had left, Sansa felt, and all she could hear was the music emanating from below. The last two times she ventured downstairs, Sansa had her wits scared out of her and promised herself she’d never go down again. Yet, this seemingly friendly spirit said that it was all a lie, that perhaps Sansa was right, that _someone_ was down there playing after all.

Her heart beating fast, Sansa put on her dressing gown and stepped into the hallway. Glancing to the blue room’s door, she found it was still closed and hopefully locked. Was the spirit talking to her from that room? Was she the girl Mrs. Ame’s was scared of? A burning spirit of a girl would be enough to frighten anyone if they saw it, but Sansa remembered what happened today at the tree. A girl in flames protected her from the man and then disappeared. Perhaps, Mrs. Ame’s was wrong.

Reaching the banister, the music continued in its somber tone, and Sansa remembered the strange riddle.

“ _To the underworld, he’ll go when the somber music dies. So Persephone must follow, to find her God of lies_.”

Sansa struggled with what to do. Persephone was kidnapped by Hades and taken to the Underworld. Petyr had essentially kidnapped her from her home and brought her here, to this ghostly place. Why would he lie to her, scare her? It didn’t make sense.

The only person that didn’t seem to want her here was Duncan. That man seemed more evil in nature and apt to frighten her away or worse turn her mad. Sansa couldn’t understand why the man appeared to hate her so much. If it was Duncan downstairs, she could prove it once and for all to Petyr, and he must believe her this time.

Then there was the music box. Petyr seemed angry that it was in her possession both times. Why would _he_ place it in her room? Sansa couldn't puzzle it out. Duncan, however, might do something like that to make the marquess get rid of her. To appear as a thief, in Petyr’s eyes.

Sure of herself, Sansa crept down the staircase once again and made her way silently to the music room. The piano was still playing as she came to the door and couldn’t look inside just yet. She tried desperately to bottle up the fear she felt as she stood there, listening to this sad song. Whoever it was on the piano, they always played with sadness.

Holding her breath, Sansa steeled her resolve and peered around the edge of the partially opened double doors.

Her eyes widened at the sight before her. Petyr was the ghostly pianist! Anger welled up inside like a bonfire. He sat there in her bedroom and listened to her tell him about the piano, and he had the audacity to act as if he knew nothing. All this time Petyr let her believe....

Sansa’s grip on the door was so tight, she could have pulled it from its hinges. A small creak sounded, and she ducked behind the door as the music suddenly stopped. Sansa didn’t know what she wanted to do. Did she just barge in there and rail at the man that had pretended he wasn’t making her crazy all this time? Would he even care?

Unexpectedly, the piano began again, and this time, the tempo and crescendo changed quickly. Even as furious as Sansa was, she had to listen to how beautifully he played. She peered around again and watched him for a moment as his long, graceful fingers traversed the ivory keys with practiced ease.

His eyes were closed, as he was wholly absorbed in the music. It was a song she had never heard before. It wasn’t polished or sounded as though a composer had written it and Sansa pondered if it was of his own making. No sheets of music lay in front of him but instead only a glass of what looked like brandy, his favourite after dinner . He was dressed for bed, in his dark dressing robe and Sansa wondered why in hell he chose to play at this hour of the night.

The tempo slowed again, and then he stopped, finishing his drink. Slowly Petyr stood up making the bench screech a little against the polished marble floor, and Sansa shrink back. He was going to bed and would find her out here waiting for him.

 _Good_ , she thought with a satisfied smile. _He’ll know I caught him red-handed. I don’t care if the entire household hears me yelling at him for such a cruel joke!_

Sansa waited, but he didn’t come. Deciding to confront him all the same, she straightened her posture and marched into the music room discovering it completely empty. He was just here! She saw him, and there was no other way out of this room except to pass her.

She went to the piano and touched the bench. It was warm. Good, that meant she didn’t imagine it and knew Petyr wasn’t a ghost. He had been here.

Walking around the room, Sansa found all the windows locked and couldn’t imagine him going outside in the rain. She stood at the piano once again, frustrated and furious.

“Where did you go, you lying bastard?” she whispered to herself.

_To the Underworld, he’ll go… So Persephone must follow…_

Maybe he _was_ the Devil himself, she thought bitterly. Duncan did say the gates of hell were under this house.

 _Under_ the house…

Yes, this place was built upon an older castle. The gossip was about a torture chamber or something underneath, and Sansa shuddered. What in God’s name was going on in this house of Harrenhal?

She inspected around the walls, touching around two bookcases looking for a lever of sorts. Winterfell had two secret rooms and a passage in which to hide if needed and this house was much older than her northern home. Irritated, Sansa leaned against the wall and felt a bit of wood paneling give to the pressure.

Feeling around the wood edges, Sansa found a small notch and pressed it hard. The panel moved a little, and Sansa backed away with apprehension. Was this really a good idea? She didn’t know where this path would lead.

Nervous hands pushed the door open a little more peeking inside. It was damp and pitch black but Sansa could see stone steps leading down a curved staircase. She saw a candle on the bookcase but it would surely signal her following him. Glancing back inside the passageway, she could see a hint of light and Sansa felt like she was on a precipice. If she chose to follow this path, part of her knew she could never return.

Sansa exhaled and stepped inside the narrow passage closing the door behind her. The air was heavy, and she had to refrain from coughing. After a few moments, her eyes adjusted to the darkness and the pale light below crept up from the bottom curve of the stairs. To her right, the passage wound its way with another set of steps going up, but it was pitch black. It seemed clear that he had gone down under the house and Sansa’s heart quickened again.

Picking up her dressing gown, Sansa made her decision and took the first tentative step down. There was condensation on the stone wall and no handrail to hold onto. Sansa worried she would slip and treaded carefully downward, one step at a time.

The light grew a little brighter yet it was still very dim. A familiar scent that Sansa remembered from Petyr’s bathroom filled her nostrils along with the heavy dampness in the air. However, that wasn’t what made her anxious. The further she followed the stairs down, the warmer it grew. In fact, it was more than humid, it was fairly hot. The stone structure had trapped the heat in and with fear, Sansa guessed that’s why the marble floors were heated above.

She frowned at that remembering how scared she was when her bare foot touched the floor in the music room. The music. It was all a lie.

Well, _almost_.

The last stair was in sight, and Sansa stopped. She could hear him moving around, and suddenly she could see the light from his candle. From her position, it seemed that wherever they were, it was cavernous.

She listened intently and waited before moving down the last two steps keeping herself hidden in the darkness of the stone wall. What she discovered was nothing she could have ever expected at all.

Under the house lay a great hot spring, from where it came, Sansa couldn’t fathom. By the looks of the stone columns, it had to be as old as the original castle itself or older. Petyr had lit a few torches on the columns and didn’t seem to notice her presence at all as she watched.

At one end, the carved stones gave way to large boulders where it appeared the spring welled from. At some point in time, the stone around the pool had been carved giving it the appearance of an ancient Roman bath, from drawings that Sansa had seen in books. The only difference was a copper pipe in one corner of the pool that led up to the ceiling and a strange, soft humming that seemed to be on the other side of the rock wall. This had to be where his hot water for the bath was coming from. Petyr had his very own hot spring in his home, she shook her head in amazement.

Stream rose up from the pool and filled the space, making her wonder how hot the water was. If this is where he disappeared to each time, obviously it was cool enough to bathe in.

Immediately, that thought made her freeze; as wide, blue eyes stared at the man who began undressing by the edge of the pool. Sansa knew she should leave and not watch from the shadows in secret yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Sansa had never seen a naked man before and watching him undress, unbeknownst to him, was most decidedly not proper. It was downright scandalous.

He placed his dressing robe over a broken column that lay on its side and lifted the muslin dress shirt over his head. Petyr was lean but by no means skinny. His shoulders and chest were defined as a bit of dark hair traveled down to his stomach. For a man nearing forty, he did not have the body Sansa assumed older men had – flabby, fat, and wrinkled.

Why was she still standing here? She couldn’t very well stride in and confront him about everything while he was half-naked. Sansa kept telling herself she should go back to her room, but her feet refused to move.

When his fingers unbuttoned and shifted his trousers down, Sansa sharply inhaled. He paused for a moment, and she thought for sure he heard her, but he didn’t turn towards or acknowledge her at all and continued pushing the clothing down his legs tossing the garment to the growing pile.

She watched Petyr move down one step into the steaming water, and he waited for a moment as if gauging the temperature. Sansa saw every bit of him and couldn’t stop staring at what made men different from women. This appendage that a woman was never meant to see until her wedding night was intriguing. Is _that_ what all the fuss was about?

Sansa had heard Myranda on so many occasions talk about her experience with men and how wonderful it was, what made men good lovers and so forth. She said well-endowed men were her favorite. Was Petyr well-endowed? Sansa didn’t know the difference, as most well-bred virgin ladies probably didn’t.

Petyr sank into the water to his waist and sighed deeply as his voice reverberated throughout the chamber. He disappeared under the water for a moment before rising up again and running his hands through his wet hair and scrubbing his face. Finding a spot near the carved edge, Petyr sat down until only his shoulders were visible as his head lay back against the stone in relaxation. The torches did not give much light but enough to see him in the dark water.

Sansa gazed in lascivious fascination at Petyr in a bath, completely unaware of the girl that examined his every move. An arm lifted from the water resting behind his neck as he arched his back a little. She knew she must leave, watching him like this was more than wrong.

When a moan escaped his lungs, Sansa felt her breath quicken and an odd sensation below her navel. His brows furrowed slightly, and she could see his arm move beneath the water. Oh God, he wasn’t – no, she wasn’t watching him do _that_. Myranda said men took their own pleasure any time and as often as they could. Petyr’s breathing was labored as another moan escaped his lips echoing in the cavern. Sansa was transfixed at him, bringing about his own pleasure.

The sensation in her belly turned to burning and then a pool of pure sinful aching between her thighs as his moans grew louder, murmuring incoherent words. She was so lost in watching him, that her foot slipped on the wet stone, making her presence known.

“Who’s there?” his voice bellowed from the pool. It echoed up and back again, and Sansa knew instantly, it was his voice that she heard through the floors and walls that first night.

Sansa did not waste any time and scurried up the steps to the landing behind the music room. Damnit, she couldn’t let him catch her spying on him. She tried desperately to find a latch to open the door and cursed herself for not taking the opportunity to do so before. The damned panel would not open, and Sansa could hear him coming.

Finally, it opened as Sansa ran out not bothering to close it behind her. She barely made it up the staircase when she could hear him in the music room, knowing she would be caught.

Suddenly, a loud clang came from down the foyer and instead of running up the stairs, Petyr turned the other direction giving Sansa a chance to get back to her room, bolting the door. She was breathless as she sat down on the bed, making Lady bark in excitement for her return and Sansa quietly hushed her.

Quickly she took off her dressing gown that was filthy around the bottom and set it aside with her equally dirty slippers. Sansa crawled into bed and prayed that he didn’t know it was her. It could have been a maid or anyone else unless he saw her. Hopefully, Petyr believed after the last two times, she would be too frightened to venture downstairs again. _She hoped_.

What was she supposed to do now? She couldn’t very well confront him about pretending to be a ghost because then he would know she spied on him while he was…

Sansa screamed into her pillow out of frustration. How in God’s name was she going to explain watching him pleasure himself after discovering his lie? Her mind burned with the image of him, and her ears echoed with the sounds his voice made in the throes of desire. Worse, was the desire she felt seeing Petyr in such a state.

She heard a sharp click from her door, but the bolt prevented the intruder from entering. It had to be him, she thought and kept Lady from barking. If she were lucky, he would assume she was asleep. Sansa half expected him to knock and confront her about tonight, but it never came, and he apparently decided not to say anything now.

Coming to her door, Sansa sighed, had to be only because he thought it was her. Sansa snuggled down in the bed and knew she wouldn’t get a wink of sleep tonight. Tomorrow they would have to face one another, and she dreaded it more than anything ...even more than the little spirit of a girl that, for reasons unknown, befriended her with this newfound truth.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

 

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With trepidation, Sansa descended the stairs the following morning to break her fast. She barely slept last night, worried about what she could possibly say to him knowing the truth.

Lady trotted quickly behind, nipping at her skirts until coming to the small dining room. Taking a deep breath, Sansa walked in with her head held high only to find Petyr’s seat empty. A footman pulled out her chair as she sat, asking her if she preferred coffee or tea this morning. Anxiously, Sansa kept glancing at the doorway waiting for him to walk in yet Petyr did not come.

 _Coward_ , she thought smugly, tucking into her porridge as Lady gobbled up some meat Mrs. Ames had prepared.

Sansa changed into her ruined dress and spent the remainder of the morning with the servants and Mrs. Ames. The scent of fresh bread filled the air giving her a bit of peace. One of the footmen made a knotted toy of old rags and Lady tugged on it, growling with never-ending enjoyment. The servants went about their daily routine as Sansa sat drinking her tea when Lady finally fell asleep at her feet in the kitchen.

“Let’s take a look at that hand, my dear,” Mrs. Ames smiled as she unwrapped the soft bandages around Sansa’s fingers and palm. “The salve seems to be helping. Wrap it again tonight and tomorrow,” she said, examining the bite mark. Sansa explained what she told Petyr about the incident in the woods, and the old woman listened with mild interest.

“In her own way, the mother chose you, bonding you forever,” Mrs. Ames commented, reaching down to pet Lady behind her ears. “Took to you quickly, did she?” she asked kindly.

“Yes,” Sansa answered, watching the woman caress the animal tenderly. “As if I were her mother all along. She doesn’t seem to feel loss or separation at all.”

“You are her mother now, Sansa,” Mrs. Ames said. “She will be loyal to you all her life.”

They were quiet for a time as Sansa finished her tea, wondering if she should tell the old woman about her new acquaintance.

“Do you know where Lord Baelish went today? He wasn’t here for breakfast,” Sansa inquired instead.

“Oh, I don’t, dear. His lordship left early this morning and said he would not return until tomorrow,” Mrs. Ames said as she started cleaning up the china. “What’s troubling you, child?”

Sansa raised her head and smiled. “Oh nothing,” she lied. “There was only something I wished to discuss with him today. It’s not important.”

“He seems to have found a fondness for you,” the kindly woman smiled. “And enjoying your company, I might add.”

Sansa blushed a little, but couldn’t fault the woman. It was more than obvious Petyr had made a point of spending more of his time with her the last few days.

“Since that day at the market, you appear to be happier, my dear,” Mrs. Ames gave a knowing grin, and Sansa flushed bright red. “It’s a good thing,” she patted her hand sincerely. “I was beginning to worry about you. I’m glad you moved out of the blue room. Nothing good would have come from that. We lost too many young maids due to that room. I tried and tried to tell his lordship that the girls were scared of spirits in the house, but he only shrugged it off as silly superstition.”

 _He would_ , Sansa rolled her eyes. How long had this game of his been going on? She couldn’t tell the housekeeper of the marquess’ treachery just yet.

Sansa thought about the little spirit and wondered if she should tell Mrs. Ames. She saved her life in the woods and told her about Petyr, but Mrs. Ames said never to listen to who she referred to as _‘them’_.

This troubled spirit of a girl was far from malevolent. Maybe she was just lonely for too long, and Sansa felt sorry for her. Mrs. Ames said herself, this house had seen too much sorrow. Plus, the ghostly girl told Sansa she was special. It appeared more likely that no one gave this girl a chance outside of fear. Possibly Sansa was the one to really see her for the first time while everyone else ran frightfully away.

It seemed Mrs. Ames thought it best to ignore everything that wasn’t rooted in the physical world to keep the peace. More and more, Sansa was betting the old housekeeper told the maids to not wander the house at night as well, and that’s why the blue room had been kept locked. Petyr playing the piano downstairs and his ghostly secret had all the servants believing anything he and Mrs. Ames said. Sansa could not understand why.

Perhaps Mrs. Ames know about the marquess fooling everyone with his midnight concertos. If she did, then she was a liar too. She told Sansa that discussing these spectral things with Petyr was a bad idea for he would not understand, yet he, himself was one of those ghosts. Sansa puzzled over whether to tell the woman what she knew about Lord Baelish but in the end, thought best to keep it to herself – for now.

Later in the day, Sansa took Lady outside allowing her to run about the grounds. She was the funniest thing to watch as she was all paws and clumsy giving Sansa joy in this lonely place. Lady set out exploring her new world without a care. Her little white ears would perk up at any sound just as her eyes were sharp and went chasing after a squirrel near the labyrinth.

Getting too close to the maze’s entrance, Sansa rushed over and scooped her up. The weather was turning fast, and it would most likely snow before the week was out. Sansa stood staring at the massive hedges in wonder. Taking a few nervous steps inside the entrance, she glanced down a long corridor that broke into three separate pathways. The hedges were overgrown as two paths were almost entirely blocked by years of growth. Petyr had warned it was dangerous, and by the looks of it, one would have a difficult time just moving past the weeds and branches.

Lady growled and barked, but it wasn’t at the dark maze but the man that marched full stride towards them.

“Lord Baelish told you not to go inside that labyrinth, did he not?” Duncan yelled from across the gardens. “You may be the lady of the house, but he is still the master, and his wishes will be obeyed.”

“Why? What is he hiding in there?” Sansa smirked defying the old butler and stood just inside the archway.

“Hiding?” Duncan frowned as he reached for her, “Girl, you northerners may not be the most educated, but I’m assuming your mother taught you _some_ history. The old king built the original castle and _that_ damned thing,” he said, pointing to the labyrinth. “Completely mad he was. Loved to torture people for amusement. You haven’t any idea how many people have died in there.”

Sansa stood defiant before the butler. He was only trying to scare her. How could a maze kill anyone? Duncan was probably just as proficient a liar as his master. He clearly did not like Mrs. Ames or her challenging him.

“I’m not afraid of _ghosts_ , Duncan,” Sansa contested and strode past him.

“You and that old woman… “ he breathed in disgust. “You’re a curse upon this place bringing back the old pagan spirits. God will watch and judge you, wicked women.”

Sansa whisked around in anger. She was tired of this man and his grumblings, no matter what Mrs. Ames and Petyr said.

“If this place sits on the gates of hell, as you’ve said,” she began harshly, “Then why are you still here?”

Duncan walked up to her as Sansa held her ground.

“God puts His faithful servants where they are needed most,” he hissed, “even to protect those who do not believe they need it.”

Sansa laughed heartily, “When was the last time God protected anyone that truly needed it? Where were His servants when innocent children were executed for nothing?” she spat viciously and stood only inches from Duncan’s face. “I don’t need the protection of a God that lets children die by firing squad in the mud and rain by a vengeful and hateful brat of a king,” Sansa breathed, the venom dripping from her mouth. Taking a few steps back, she glanced at the labyrinth, gardens, and then towards the house. “This place is already dead, it nor I need your protection, Duncan.”

Not waiting for a retort, Sansa turned on her heel and left the butler standing with a look of fury on his face. She smiled as she reached the terrace steps. The last thing she needed was a zealot preaching to her. Sansa was sick of his frowns, disapproving glares, and rude comments. For weeks, she wished to speak her mind. She may not be the lady of the house after she confronted Petyr on his treachery, so Sansa might as well take what little victories should could and enjoy it.

 

* * *

 

 

There was no point in having the staff prepare the dining room just for her, so Sansa insisted on taking her supper in her bedroom. She didn’t feel like reading in the library or playing music today either. Her mind was troubled with so many things since last night.

Lady stretched out upon the duvet, her eyes drifting closed yet Sansa was wide awake. Mrs. Ames tea sat untouched on the table as Sansa felt that she did not require it. Her deceitful ghost wasn’t here, and the real one wasn’t frightening any longer. Sansa wondered if and when the little girl would appear again. Perhaps, she could help get rid of Duncan, and that idea made Sansa smile.

Knowing that Petyr would not be returning until tomorrow, Sansa desperately wanted to use his bath again. There would be no one to worry about, and she could take her time. Slipping on her dressing gown, Sansa ducked out into the shadowy hallway with just a single candle to light her way.

Before leaving, she glanced at the blue room’s door and pondered why that was _her_ room. Walking to the door, Sansa paused for a few moments before rapping softly, but there was no answer. Shaking her head, Sansa wasn’t sure what she would have done if something answered back. She placed her palm on the wood and whispered a simple “ _thank you_ ” before making her way towards Petyr’s rooms.

It was later than Sansa realized as the house was dark and quiet. She stood before Petyr’s bedroom door and debated. He did say that if he caught her in here again, there would be consequences. The latch, however, did not budge telling her the room was locked and Sansa frowned in disappointment. Remembering the Marchioness’ room, she walked over and placed her hand on the latch. It was bolted as well making Sansa huff in annoyance. Clearly, he did not trust her at all while he was away now.

 _Nor should he_ , she smirked _, I did snoop through his room and now wish to use his tub and elegant soaps._

Sansa walked back towards her room and stopped at the staircase gazing down at the sleeping house. How strange it was, that she no longer feared the nights. How quickly things could change with new knowledge. Sansa was never insane as she had feared before. No, this house was filled with liars in one way or another. The only one she was warned against was the one with a element of truth.

She glanced down the landing towards her room and then down the stairs. Petyr wouldn’t return untill tomorrow morning at least. With a wicked gleam, Sansa picked up her gown and walked down the stairs into the music room. Pressing the wood, the little door opened and Sansa felt the same hot, damp air as last night. Checking to make sure no one was watching, she stepped inside and closed the panel behind her not realizing that a well-concealed thread had pulled a potted plant from its place on the marble leaving a visible ring of dirt.

It was much easier to see with a candle in the dank corridor than last night. The stairs heading down to the pool were to her left and another, more significant passage to her right. Out of curiosity, Sansa walked to the other direction for a bit. As before, a set of stone stairs curved up the side heading up to at least the second floor but there was also a heavy oak door on the other wall. It was fixed with a massive padlock, and Sansa entertained wild notions of what could be behind it. Perhaps it was the dreaded torture chamber the servants whispered about. In a way, if that’s what was behind that door, Sansa was glad it was locked.

Moving back towards the music room, Sansa started down the stone steps to the hot spring that quietly awaited. She didn’t know why, but tonight she wasn’t scared or timid at all being down here alone. There were numerous hot springs at home in the woods that the children loved playing in. This was nothing different, except being inside and completely private. Sansa could soak down here as long as she liked tonight, she thought with a huge smile.

She lit the same torches as Petyr did the night before, and the room began to warm in the soft glow of the fire. There was something very sinful about being down here unbeknownst to anyone. Upstairs, servants were sleeping as their young mistress was bathing like a storybook nymph in a mysterious pool under their feet.

Sansa walked around the cavernous room. On one side, it looked as though the walls had caved in on themselves from the old castle yet on the adjacent side was where the spring seemed to be bubbling up from. Around the outer side of the pool is where it had been carved many years ago, with its columns, and steps down into the dark, hot water.

On the wall, where the stairs led up, there was another door just like the one padlocked in the upper corridor. This one was locked as well, and Sansa couldn’t help but wonder what Petyr was hiding down here. The doors were ancient, but the padlocks were new.

Unable to solve the mystery, Sansa went back to the pool and sat on the broken column, setting her candlestick on the floor. Was she really going to bathe down here in the dark in the middle of the night? Dipping her toes, the water was hot but not scalding and the idea of soaking in water that wouldn’t turn cold like a bathing tub was too much to resist.

Taking off her dressing gown, she paused halfway at the laces on her chemise. Sansa knew she was alone, and it wasn’t so much the idea of a little girl’s spirit spying on her but all the same, Sansa decided to keep on the sheer material just in case. It wasn’t as if she was going to use soap or anything to cleanse, this was just to soak and relax for a little while before heading to bed.

Tentative steps lead down into the water until Sansa was waist-deep. It took a few minutes for her body to acclimate to the temperature making her skin tingle. Wading around the pool, it was much deeper and hotter towards the old wall. Yes, that must be the source of the spring, she thought. Finding the carved stone near one candle-lit column, Sansa sat relatively near where she spied on Petyr last night. It was just large enough to sit and lean back in relaxation.

Sansa wondered how many people from the past had sat in this very spot enjoying this moment. Just as Petyr had, she dipped under the water letting the heat sting her face before quickly coming back up. It was far too hot to submerge for more than a few seconds as she wrung the excess water from her hair, pushing it back.

She didn’t know how much time passed, and she didn’t really care. It was the first time Sansa felt truly relaxed without a care in the world. Every ache, soreness, tension, worry… it was all washed away as the encompassing heat worked magic on her tired body. Sansa closed her eyes and hoped she did not fall asleep.

What titillating gossip _that_ would be, to find her dead and floating in a pool under the house! How would Petyr explain that she giggled to herself?

Her thoughts turned to Petyr, and the image of him last night still burned in her psyche. He was practically sitting where Sansa was now. That first rush of heat to her cheeks when he disrobed made her blush even now at the memory. Petyr was handsome in his own way, and Sansa tried to picture what he must have looked like when he was her age. He was still a man in his prime that age had not yet taken its toll despite a hint of grey hair.

Once, Sansa would never have thought a man his age could have been appealing to her in the least. If her parents had betrothed her to someone older than thirty, she would have been devastated. Sansa’s greatest fear, being the eldest daughter and one that was required to marry well, was that she would be wed to title and money – never for love or attraction.

She did find Joffrey young and desirable at first, and couldn’t deny the idea of being queen one day didn’t fill her with excitement, but that rosy dream came crashing down as fast as she conjured it up. Even the faintest hope of marrying a lower lord that wasn’t hideous in looks and nature died as time dragged on. Making light of Myranda’s pathetic attempt to marry for money and power back at the Vale was now a sour note in Sansa’s mind.

Would Sansa have ever given Petyr a second glance once upon a time? Probably not. He was below her in reputation and station regardless of his current title and estates. Her father never would have allowed such a match for his daughter.

Had Petyr asked for her hand, even before she discovered his lie, would she have accepted it? Sansa just didn’t know. He might have been kind, given his generosity and at least bedding him would not have been too terrible a deed. Sansa couldn’t imagine him hurting her purposefully.

That kiss behind the tree, a tingly memory on her lips and the way he danced and held her… yes, she could have done worse, Sansa supposed.

“The vision before me is what I dreamed about last night,” his deep voice echoed, “did _you_ sleep well too?”

Sansa’s scream echoed around the room as she fell off the stone ledge and into the deeper part of the pool. Dipping so low that the water line came to her chin, Sansa watched Petyr casually stroll from the stairs to the broken column and candlestick that was almost burnt out. He sat down and fingered her dressing gown with a little smirk.

“I gather you didn’t expect me any time soon or I doubt you would have ever come down here,” he smiled wickedly. “Even so, I’m rather impressed. You’re more courageous than I thought.”

Sansa waded to the other side of the pool, trying to put as much distance as possible between them. Her eyes scanned the edges around the spring and didn’t know how she was supposed to get past him. The water was getting too deep as she backed towards the rocky wall.

“I would exercise caution if I were you,” he warned lightly, bringing her dressing gown to his nose, “There is a dropoff right where you’re standing. I’m not sure how deep it goes, and I rather think we both don’t want to find out.”

Sansa paused in fear and looked behind her. The water was much hotter and a deep black. She didn’t know how to swim well and did not want to test his truthfulness with her life. She moved along the carved edge and tried to pull herself up, but each time her chemise kept getting in the way of her escape.

“Would you like me to help you? Or I can continue to admire the view of your backside, if you like,” Sansa heard him chuckle from behind her on the opposite side of the pool.

Horror filled Sansa at the knowledge that her now wet and sheer chemise clinging to her skin did nothing to shield her body from him. She sunk back down in the water, making sure to keep everything below her shoulders from view.

“Mrs. Ames said you would not return until the morrow,” she said nervously. “I only wanted some time alone… some privacy.”

“Oh? Like the privacy you gave me last night?” he chided, taking off his suede slippers, and Sansa turned bright red.

Petyr removed his own dressing gown and paused in his shirt sleeves and trousers as Sansa stood speechless. Instead of removing his shirt, Petyr removed his trousers and set them aside before taking two steps into the water.

“What are you doing? You can’t come in here!” she squeaked, pressing herself against the stone.

“The last time I checked, everything here belongs to me. I can do as I wish,” Petyr smiled and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Don’t you dare. A gentleman…”

“Would keep his shirt on even though the lady has seen every inch of him? Fine, I concede…” Petyr chuckled making his way, waist-deep.

“A _gentleman_ , would turn his back and let me cover myself so I…”

“Can scurry like a scared rabbit back to your room?” he teased, finishing her sentence again. “We both know I am no gentleman.”

“You’re a lying rake,” Sansa seethed. “Go bathe in your modern washroom –  or anywhere else.”

“This is my house, go be sanctimonious somewhere else,” he laughed. “Besides, I may be a roué, but I did not lie. Not directly.”

“You think guilt by omission is any better?” she fumed. “You made me believe I was mad. You knew – I tried to tell you, and you pretended… _why_?”

Petyr moved towards her and Sansa slowly retreated along the side of the pool until he completely blocked her path.

“I didn’t know it was you at first,” he said, barring her way around him. “I assumed it was one of the maids again.”

Sansa bristled with anger. It didn’t make it any better that he was scaring the daylights out of his servants too. “Enjoy it, do you? Scaring women into believing in ghosts?”

Petyr moved in closer, and when Sansa tried to dodge him, he pinned her against the warm granite.

“Them? Perhaps once or twice knowing how bloody superstitious they all are. They scare so easily, and it keeps prying eyes out of my private affairs,” he said with control. “But you? No. I did not enjoy it at all. I was going to say something that night in your room until I found out you had been rummaging in _my_ room…”

“You stubborn bastard, I told you I didn’t take it,” Sansa interrupted hotly, “For all I know now, you put it there to make me look like a madwoman in front of everyone.”

Petyr frowned but didn’t let her move.

“And why would I do that?” he smirked. “I told you it was precious to me. Why would I – ”

“I don’t know, you didn’t seem to be bothered that I was scared to death and yet you didn’t say a thing the second time,” Sansa began to ramble incoherently out of anger and frustration. “You’re hiding something down here and using these scare tactics to keep anyone from – ”

Petyr’s mouth cut her off in a fury, swallowing her words instantly. Sansa was spun back to that day behind the tree when he took her off guard with his kiss. It was all-consuming, but that resentment won out, forcing her to push him away. Petyr wrapped his arms around her, trapping her hands against his chest as she squirmed. When her mouth opened in protest, his tongue delved in touching hers, making Sansa gasp.

Petyr’s tongue dipped and sensually teased her slowly coaxing her mouth to play with his. Sansa felt herself yielding slightly and drummed up that rage pushing against his chest. Desire pooled in his eyes as she struggled and there was a charge between them.

“Why did you let me follow you last night?” she spat, trying to slip out of his hold.

“I didn’t think you would come down again, to be honest,” Petyr eyed cautiously.

“You? Honest? Now there’s a lark,” she reeled against his hard body. Two layers of thin, wet clothing were all that separated them. Sansa was more than aware of how bad a situation this could turn into.

“You would have found out, I realized, sooner or later. You are stubborn and nosy to a fault,” Petyr said, tightening his grip. “Once I saw that you really believed, I was worried I had pushed you to a breaking point.”

“Did you put that damned music box in my room?” she demanded.

“ _No_ ,” he answered pointedly, “and I still haven’t found out who is playing tricks on you.”

“Besides you,” she breathed viciously.

Sansa studied his eyes for the truth and couldn’t tell anymore. Why should she even consider trusting him after all of this? Petyr was hiding something important enough, that making the servants believe in ghosts and keeping them from poking into areas of the house was a priority.

“Why didn’t you say something last night,” she asked anxiously. “You knew it was me.”

“You could have left at any time,” he cooed seductively. “Why did you stay –   _and watch?_ ”

Sansa’s stomach clenched while her heart pulsed. What could she say to that? Petyr was right, she could have left, but she watched him pleasure himself, and the whole time he knew she was there. He let her witness it on purpose!

“Have you ever seen a naked man before, Sansa?” he whispered in her ear, his mouth brushing the sensitive skin there. “Do you know what happens when he fantasizes about a young woman spying from shadows as he touches himself?”

Petyr pressed his body, pinning hers to the stone, feeling a hardness against her thigh. The thin layers of muslin did nothing to safeguard her from the sensation of his warm and sturdy body. His arms had loosened their hold as his hand ghosted up her waist.

“If you didn’t want anyone to know what you’re doing down here, why play that damned piano and raise suspicions?” she inquired, trying not to feel his hot breath under her ear.

“Because I like to play,” those soft lips whispered down her jaw making Sansa shiver involuntarily. “Just – _not for an audience_.”

Sansa’s chest heaved and felt an ache begin between her legs where his hip pressed gently. She needed to get out of here, needed to get a hold of herself. She couldn’t let him have this intimacy. She shouldn’t be letting him touch her like this.

“What are you hiding?” she asked again when he pulled back just a breath away from her lips. “What keeps me from telling everyone what you’re doing?”

Petyr smiled roguishly as his eyes darkened, gazing at her mouth.

“Trust,” he whispered intimately and Sansa felt her breasts graze his chest with every heavy breath. “… _and treason_.”

Before she could utter another word, his mouth devoured hers completely. Petyr’s fingers sifted their way through Sansa’s wet hair cupping the back of her neck and held her mouth to him. Sansa protested weakly falling to his kiss. It wasn’t just erotic in the way he kissed her, but the feel of his naked body under the wet shirt that left her craving to touch him.

There was no one but her conscious telling her this was wrong, but the way he made her feel was so good. Watching Petyr pleasure himself last night as he was lost in thoughts of her made Sansa burn with need. He wanted her to know he was fantasizing about her, and now that desire flowed through her entirely.

The hand that rested on her waist traveled up so slowly, that when he cupped her breast, it made her hiss in shock. Petyr pulled away slightly, staring at her intensely when his thumb circled a nipple causing it to harden quickly. She knew she needed to make him stop, yet the look in his eyes was her undoing. The sheer torturous and wicked way his body pressed against hers was chipping away at her will. It was all wrong, a voice kept telling her, but this yearning was too much push aside.

Sansa enjoyed it when he kissed her behind that damned tree. She longed to kiss him again as the days passed. Even now, Sansa wanted to taste his mouth regardless of how furious she was at him. She wanted to feel real passion at least once.

Petyr must have sensed it too, for when he lowered his mouth to hers, she let him in. Without a thought, her fingers found their way into his damp hair, and the other pressed around his lower back as Petyr deepened his kiss. Her nerves were on fire as his hand kneaded her breast and felt him groan along her jaw. Petyr found a pulse point at the base of her throat and suckled it roughly making a moan finally escape her lips and spurring him on.

His hips ground into hers and Sansa felt his desire growing harder as he pushed one of her legs aside stepping between them. His cock pressed against her intimately, and the soft material caused rough friction in the hot water. Knowing that he was aroused and that it was touching her, made Sansa turn scarlet. Years ago, she had let Joffrey touch her breast once but never had anything gone beyond kissing. Joffrey didn't make her feel anything like what Petyr was doing to her senses. Sansa was so focused on the ache between her legs, that when Petyr's mouth took a nipple ravenously, it sent a jolt right to her core, lighting it on fire.

Unconsciously, her back arched that caused her apex to thrust against him, making Petyr growl as he lapped at her breast. His arm wrapped around her waist as he opened up her legs wider, but the material was obstructing his way. A devilish hand drifted down grasping her bum and Sansa gasped at the contact, clutching onto him. Her breasts abandoned, Petyr returned to her mouth, and it was all Sansa could do to keep up with him. His tongue danced with hers, and suddenly she couldn’t stop the whimpers and moans echoing in the dark and hot chamber.

Fingers gathered the wet chemise under her bum as the other hand slid under her thigh, hiking it up by his narrow hips. His mouth begged her to kiss him back. Finally, Sansa gave in wrapping her arms around his neck. She couldn’t get enough of kissing him, the hand that caressed her thigh, their sexes that teased each other through their thin muslin barriers, that when his fingertips grazed the bare skin of her bum, Sansa froze in fear breathing into his open mouth.

This was all too real as those long digits dipped low and brushed the edge of her sex, making her hips jolt and rub against him. Petyr’s eyes were filled with lust as he yanked the rest of her chemise up as both of his hands were so close to where she was aching to be touched. This was the point of no return, and they both knew it.

Holding her thigh, he gently eased forward, his cock sliding against her folds. Petyr’s breath was hot and heavy while he let her discover him. He pressed a little harder and that bundle of nerves pulsed with need. The hot water had relaxed her muscles and yet elevated her hunger in every way when they touched. His cock was hard yet silky as it slid along where she was aching with wicked desire. Petyr tried to angle himself when suddenly Sansa stopped him.

She wanted him. Sansa knew there was no denying that, but this, giving herself to him ultimately was a line in the sand she couldn’t cross. Petyr had no intention of marrying her or anything of the sort. If she let him have her, she would forever be a whore and Sansa did not want to be any man’s mistress.

“No,” she whispered and waited for him to be like any other man and take her anyway.

Sansa was already open and wanton the way he had her spayed against him. Even now, it was hard for her to say no. She was drowning with lust and her body demanded a release from this torture.

“Yes, you’re right,” he murmured along her jaw, which did not help the situation. “But what kind of gentleman would I be if I left you in such a state of dissatisfaction?”

Before Sansa could render his meaning, he pushed her against the stone with a hard splash. In place of his cock, Petyr’s hand cupped her mound roughly. The other hiked her knee up around his waist as his mouth descended on her with ferocity. Those fingers that Sansa thought were so beautiful as they graced the piano were anything but as they played between her folds. Rough, but skilled as they found that swollen bud making her cry out in pleasure.

A finger dipped inside, and Sansa shuddered grasping onto to him. Petyr was still grinding against her as she felt his cock slide between his hand and the inside of her thigh. The friction in the way he manipulated and teased had Sansa panting. Did all men know this? She could not have told him to stop even if she wanted to because something was building inside her and building fast. That slow ache, turned into a rage as the image of Petyr touching himself flashed in her mind.

“Do you want to know what I was thinking last night?” he purred while his fingers never stopped for a second. She was on fire and felt the pressure getting stronger. Sansa needed something and needed it badly as she breathed heavy near his ear holding onto him.

“It wasn’t even about fucking you,” he began while suckling on her neck. “I wanted to lay you on top of this ledge and spread your beautiful thighs as my mouth sucked on your little rosebud. I wanted to hear you cry my name and feel your fingers in my hair as I made you come.”

His fingers worked tirelessly, and Sansa could feel the dam about to burst. She bit her lip trying not to let those desperate moans come out. A part of her didn’t want it to happen, and yet she couldn’t handle much more. Sansa’s hips were thrusting instinctively against his hand and abdomen demanding more of their own accord. Her body was telling her what it needed and chased the sensation he was giving.

“Ever had a man feast on your cunt, sweetling?"

Sansa was shocked at the image it painted in her mind. She could see Petyr's face buried between her legs. Did men really want to taste a woman down there? His fingers rubbed her harder, and Sansa felt it coming. Oh God, she couldn't stop it as she snapped her eyes shut.

"Feel his tongue dip inside you…” his voice whispered, but Sansa couldn’t hear him anymore. She cried out and thought surely if anyone were upstairs they would overhear her ecstasy. Maybe it was a good thing that Petyr had them all believing in ghosts.

Sansa was trembling and shaking in his arms despite the hot water surrounding them. He pulled back and studied her face for a moment. Petyr was still hard, and she didn’t know what was going to happen next.

All too quickly, shame and anxiety ran through Sansa’s veins, and she couldn’t look him in the eyes. She let him touch her like some wanton in a brothel. Petyr all but took her virginity tonight It was beautiful and horrible at the same time. She had turned into what she despised in Myranda.

Petyr sensed her change immediately and pushed her away leaning his arms against the pool’s edge. There was something in his eyes that Sansa couldn’t quite place. Was it guilt? Displeasure? Disgust? Whatever it was, he wanted nothing more to do with her.

“Go, for God’s sake,” he groaned as if in pain.

He made Sansa fall apart with his touch, but now it was as if he couldn’t stand the sight of her. The tears welled up and the pang of hurt stabbed through her like a sharp knife. This is what he thought of her after all, Sansa sniffed. She was a whore, already bought and paid with gowns and gifts.

“Did you hear me? _Go!_ ” Petyr yelled.

Sansa lumbered out of the water in her wet chemise, grabbing her dressing gown. She tied it quickly and glanced at the man that had not moved an inch, facing away from her. Petyr couldn’t even look at her, and Sansa had never felt so despicable and used in her entire life. Who seduced who tonight? Now she wasn’t so sure what had just happened between them. They both wanted it, didn't they?

“Must I tell you again? _Get out –_ and don’t come back down here again,” he growled, avoiding eye contact.

Sansa made for the stairs when she heard his voice ring out in the darkness as she ascended quickly.

“Bolt your door tonight!"

It wasn’t until she was inside her room and slid the bolt on the door as Petyr commanded when the tears fell, and Sansa cried hopelessly next to her bed. Lady waged her tail nervously as she pawed her mistress’ wet chemise, whimpering in confusion. Sansa sobbed loudly and never heard the soft steps that stood in front of her door, listening as she fell into deep despair.

The pup crawled into her mistress’ lap and attempted to comfort her in the only way it knew how. Sansa didn’t know what was happening anymore. She could still feel the soft ache between her legs and his mouth on hers. Is this what it felt like to fall for someone who did not want you in return? In all fairness, she did stop him... but that look in his eyes at the end. It was a far cry from the desire she had seen residing in those deep green orbs.

If she had let Petyr take her tonight, what then? He would have pleasure on his terms, and when it came time to marry, he would choose a proper lady and not the whore, he turned her into. Sansa wiped her tears. She couldn’t be falling for him, she just couldn’t. What did she know about this man? Nothing. He was a liar, a cad, and a cheat.

What kind of woman falls for a man like that? Yet there were also those moments in the music room when Sansa drew Petyr while he slept, when he read poetry and caressed her hair or when they had lovely conversations about shared interests. That man, she grew to like a little more each day. Was that all it took for her to spread her legs wantonly for him? In the end, Petyr didn't take her to sate his own lust. He pushed her away, and Sansa hated that rejection even though she knew she wasn't ready.

What was worse is that now Sansa knew that side to him. One kiss behind a tree left her wanting more from this man. Now, she knew what real desire was and how he made her burn with pleasure. That knowledge, like Eve's apple, was tempting, delicious, and irreversible. How in heaven was she supposed to interact with Petyr after such intimacies? The sooner he left, the better.

Sansa lifted Lady onto the bed and peeled off her wet garments, leaving them in a dirty heap on the floor. Slipping into a clean nightgown, she crawled into bed with a heavy heart. Lady curled up beside her, and after a while, Sansa felt cool fingers running through her damp hair. For a heartbeat, she thought it might be Petyr, but the little voice echoed her sadness.

“Ssshh, I’m here,” it said as childlike fingers combed her hair from behind. “Don’t cry.”

Tears dried on her cheeks as the little spirit was of some comfort. This ghostly girl, as Sansa would have never suspected, was the one that cared for her and Lady. The spirit understood without a word being spoken. Sansa could never tell Mrs. Ames that she let Petyr fondle her in passion. He wasn't hers to claim.

“He is lost on another,” it said serenely. “It will come to pass, and you will see the truth. _Her name is carved in music and must be broken_.”

Sansa sniffed, as her head was pounding from a terrible headache.

“I don’t understand,” she whimpered tiredly.

“You will,” the sweet voice breathed. “You must be strong now, for on the morrow – _she_ comes.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

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Sansa sipped her tea as she took her breakfast in bed. It was a cowardly move after what transpired last night, she knew, but Sansa wasn’t ready to face Petyr just yet. Instructions were given to Mrs. Ames, the mistress didn’t feel well and asked to break her fast in her room. Sleep was practically impossible for Sansa’s senses twisted and turned around the man that plagued her thoughts.

Her body tingled from the memory of his mouth and the way their wet and virtually naked bodies touched in the steaming water. Petyr left an ache long after his tantalizing caresses stopped. Sansa could feel the way she gripped him tightly as he brought her to that peak of pleasure. She didn’t know a man could do such a thing. God in heaven, Sansa couldn’t conceive a woman feeling something like that.

Did Petyr violate her as her mother had warned her daughters in regards to men? He didn’t take her innocence in the way she feared, yet her it was her very innocence that was destroyed last night. She moaned and writhed at his ministrations yet afterward, Sansa couldn’t stop the shame that seeped from every pore. She wanted him, perhaps even wanton enough to let him take her the way men were supposed to. At that moment, Sansa didn’t care he wasn’t her husband nor that he would be forced to marry her. All she desired was the feeling of being wanted. In the end, Petyr told her to go and never return to the lagoon hiding underneath the house of lies he built.

A soft knock sounded on her door, and Sansa suspected Sarah had come to remove the tray and help her dress for the day. Instead, a very weary Petyr entered, dressed in charcoal grey and cream. Lady barked playfully wagging her tail at Sansa’s feet, but Petyr ignored her.

“Good morning,” he spoke formally and paused for a moment before adding, “I heard you were ill…”

Petyr stared at a spot over Sansa’s shoulder, avoiding her eyes and a small pang of hurt ached in her chest. His face was painted with guilt and regret, and Sansa didn’t understand why she didn’t feel happy that he knew he did something wrong. She should be thrilled that he felt guilty about what he did. It appeared as though Petyr was struggling to find something to say just as Sansa remained quiet. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he finally looked directly at her, his eyes unreadable.

“I – ahem, I would like to apologize for my conduct last night,” he began softly. “My sense of enacting a little revenge... well, went rather too far.”

That hurt turned to bitterness. “ _Revenge_? After everything that you have done to me, you’re the one feeling slighted because I figured out your lies?” Sansa seethed. “Your _conduct_ last night is not the only thing for which an apology is owed, my lord.”

“As I said last night, it was never my intention to truly frighten you, but more so to keep people away from certain areas of the house. A place as old and ripe with stories as this, there are bound to be inquisitive eyes. Once I realized you actually believed to the point of hysteria, I knew I would have to be truthful with you very soon,” Petyr explained. Even though he meant to sound sincere, it still felt forced.

“Is that why you were going to send me back to my uncle or is there something else you’re not telling me? Clearly, you have no intention of trusting me,” Sansa retorted coldly.

Petyr pressed his lips into a thin line, and Sansa thought he would leave, refusing to answer her.

“Partly,” he said quietly, “Bringing you here was… not something I had planned on. I’m not exactly prone to flights of fancy as you’ll find that I’m rarely trusting of people. I could have simply driven you completely mad and sent you away for safekeeping, so count yourself lucky, my dear.”

“Thank you _so_ much,” she spat, “You could have saved yourself the bloody trouble and just left me in Riverrun.”

“Yes,” he drawled with a smile, “You were exhilarated as Edmure’s caretaker.”

“I wouldn’t have been living there had Aunt Lysa not cast me out – all because of you,” Sansa growled wanting to throw her teacup at his smug face.

“Me?” he questioned with a raised eyebrow. “Well, that does explain quite a bit, doesn’t it?” he muttered in thought. “I never wanted to go to that damned ball but did so for reasons that did not involve Lysa. I suppose I owe you an apology for that as well. However, I can’t imagine for the life of me, that you actually enjoyed being under Lysa’s thumb. How much longer until you ran away or leapt from that balcony?”

Petyr leaned against the door frame, his unwavering gaze ultimately making Sansa look away. She hated the way his eyes seemed to know what she was thinking. The awkward silence again became unbearable, and Sansa drank the last of her cold tea to keep her hands busy.

“So, is that it? That’s your apology?” she asked, wishing he would leave her room.

“Yes, I think so. You didn’t think I was going to tell you my deepest secrets, did you?” Petyr grinned. Sansa wanted to smack him hard across the face.

“Even ones that hint at _treason_?” she countered. Two could play this game.

Petyr took a deep breath but didn’t move from his stance. “Secrets that will get us both killed. Remember, you have no favor within the court, and Joffrey would love a reason to hang you out of sheer spitefulness. Trust me that you will benefit from keeping quiet and staying here. As I promised, no harm will come to you. You will not find such a gracious and honest offer from anyone else, including the remains of your family,” he offered coolly.

“And if I don’t care that we’re both hanging just for the sake of seeing you caught in your own game…” Sansa bravely continued before being interrupted.

“I could kill you right now,” he said coldly, not flinching in the slightest. “No one will doubt my word, and frankly, no one will question the death of a traitor.”

Sansa froze in fear staring at his stone face. Would he really do it? Could he kill her so easily? Who was she to him? Petyr said so himself that bringing her here was not planned and everything since then screamed that he seemed to second guess that decision weeks ago.

The man that was funny and kind was either a ruse or his true self. The rumors that surrounded Petyr before they first met at the Vale were of a different man entirely. He had a reputation for ruthlessness in his trade business that benefitted the crown immensely, not to mention that of a notorious rake in the capital. Sansa wasn’t completely naïve, she knew of the gaming hells, brothels and clubs gentlemen of the ton frequented. Her mother had warned her particularly when her betrothal to Joffrey was confirmed. Mother knew what kind of city Kings Landing was and the people that thrived there, especially at court. It was a far cry of the provincial life at Winterfell.

“Or you could learn to trust me and play along for these plans have nothing that bears you harm,” Petyr continued. “I can’t apologize for Lysa’s or Edmure’s actions. I have learned the hard way that even family is not always honorable and deserving of trust _or_ loyalty. However, I will promise you that I will not frighten you again and will give you safety and kindness. We are both creatures hurt by betrayal and loss. Trust does not come easy to either of us.” Petyr paused for a moment in thought. “You’re very intelligent, kind and… you deserve better than what life has given you.”

Sansa’s fury still raged in her belly, but in all honesty, she did not know what to say to that. She didn’t know how he did it, this harsh truthfulness mixed with praise and kindness. Sansa wondered how many people he threatened using his charm and promises. Petyr knew she could expose him even to her own peril, but somehow his veiled threat did not ring true. He was asking for her trust in him although she could not fathom why. He plainly felt some level of guilt and not just for taking advantage of her last night.

What options were really left to her? Was winning one hand over him worth dying for? Sansa honestly did not know what he was hiding, but if it put both of them at risk, it certainly wasn’t going to favor anyone in the ton, she gathered. That made Sansa smile a little. Maybe Petyr hated Joffrey and the Lannisters just as much as she did. Who would she even tell? No one would believe her, least of all Aunt Lysa. Even if Edmure did, it might not save her from the firing squad a second time. Whatever Petyr was involved in; people would assume Sansa was too. What had she gotten herself into coming here? As if she had a choice.

A loud ruckus from downstairs had both of them glancing at the doorway. His attention wholly diverted, Petyr walked out into the hallway as Sansa could hear a loud laugh that sounded ominously familiar. When he returned, a grim expression was on his face, and Sansa knew it couldn’t be good.

“Get dressed,” he ordered softly. “We have… guests.”

Without another word of explanation, Petyr closed her door, leaving Sansa to wonder about the visitors. Minutes later, Sarah arrived and dressed Sansa in her lavender and lace afternoon gown. The color flattered her complexion and hair as the girl pinned up Sansa’s curls with pearl combs letting a few tendrils fall gracefully around her neck.

Sansa made her way to the staircase and paused with her hands on the banister overlooking the foyer. The laughter echoed up, and Sansa closed her eyes. She knew that voice too well. The woman’s coquettish giggle was well-prepared to charm gentlemen making Sansa sick. She almost wanted to go back to her room and tell the maid to extend her excuses to Petyr for not meeting his guests.

She knew she would have to face them sooner or later. Surely Petyr would know her sudden illness was a lie. It was unavoidable, for Sansa had no idea how long they would stay at Harrenhal. If she was tremendously lucky, they were only stopping to rest their horses and soon would be on their way, presumably to Kings Landing for the winter.

Taking a deep breath, Sansa descended to the main floor just as a flirty brunette came out of the blue sitting room with her father and Petyr in tow. Her rose dress was pretty but terribly wrinkled from travel.

“Petyr,” Myranda cooed in delight.

 _Petyr?_ Not Lord Baelish or even Lord Petyr. Lady Myranda was already at acceptable terms to call him by his given name?

“The house is beautiful. Father told me what Harrenhal looked like when the duke took residence here, but this doesn’t do it justice at all.”

“It never looked like this years ago under the Duke of StormsEnd, Myranda,” Lord Royce said with a bored expression on his face. “A considerable amount of work has been done here, Baelish. Must have cost you a small fortune. Even Stannis didn’t have the funds to really restore the estate. Makes living out all the way out here somewhat bearable.”

“Oh Father, Petyr could host the most exquisite parties here, and even the King himself would come,” Myranda tutted taking Petyr’s arm before her eyes caught Sansa at the bottom of the stairs. Sansa wasn’t sure what to expect, but the excited and delightful smile from the brunette was far from anything her mind came up with. “Lady Sansa!” Myranda rushed over with a friendly embrace that made Sansa wonder if the girl would plunge a knife into her back.

“Lady Myranda,” Sansa greeting politely catching Petyr’s bemused glance and Lord Royce’s confused one. “Lord Royce, it’s good to see you again. I hope you’re well.”

“Oh Sansa, I’ve missed you terribly since the duchess sent you away. I never believed the slander against you. Such nasty gossip. All they could talk about was how you threw yourself at a gentleman in the Vale trying to pressure him into marriage,” the brunette’s sing-song voice rambled on making Sansa blush.

Is that what they were saying? Sansa knew Myranda was a cool liar and no friend of hers, but she wondered if that was the gossip spread around the Vale. Indeed, there was no mention of Petyr, and Sansa knew now why. “It must have been wonderful to go and live with Lord Edmure here in the Riverlands, your mother’s home. Where is your uncle? Is he here visiting as well?”

Sansa stood speechless and glanced at Petyr for help.

“Lord Edmure is at Riverrun, Lady Myranda,” Petyr said and then cleared his throat. “Sansa… is now my ward. Legally, of course.”

Myranda pulled away with a strange look on her face. Sansa knew this feigned friendliness was all an act, but she wondered if Petyr knew it as well.

“Oh? We heard that you had taken a ward, but I never would have guessed it was Lady Sansa,” Myranda smiled sweetly. However, her eyes told a different story. “I rather expected to see a young child running around here – ”

“Come now, Myranda, you really believe that Baelish would take on a small child?” Lord Royce chuckled and then caught Petyr’s smirk. “Sorry, Baelish, no offense to you.”

“Don’t think on it,” Petyr smiled as it never reached his eyes. “I’m not quite the fatherly type as of yet,” he gave Sansa a little wink. “Give it time.”

“Yes, well,” Lord Royce muttered looking Sansa over. “Would I be wrong that Tully is back to drinking and the gaming hells like his father? I can’t see why you would give a roof to his niece otherwise.”

Sansa clenched her jaw so tightly she might break a tooth. Of course, they would believe that. Why in God’s name would anyone be kind to her?

Myranda smirked, and Sansa wanted nothing more than to flog them both. It was as if she never left the Vale. Perhaps living alone out here in the countryside was better, for Sansa had almost forgotten how much she despised the lords and ladies of society. If she never had to see one of their horrid faces again, it would be too soon.

“Oh Father, be nice,” Myranda cooed again sliding up to Petyr’s side. “I think it’s very kind and generous of Petyr to help those who are unfortunate. See, I told you all those rumors about him were rubbish. Anyone willing to take in a traitor, such a terrible term don’t you agree, has a heart of gold? Her Grace said Petyr has really turned around the people in the Riverlands and expect good fortune for next season.”

“Daughter quit mooning over Lord Baelish,” Royce admonished her irritably. “Everyone is well aware of the marquess’ financial miracles. I don’t need to hear it every time. Say, Baelish, I’m parched. I assume you only have the best for your guests.”

Even Sansa was appalled at Lord Royce’s rudeness. It was still clear that he was disapproving of Petyr’s rise, grander title, and fortune. However, the way Royce acted, one would believe he were a king to be waited on. The Royce family was old and distinguished, yet they were far from wealthy as it had been recklessly spent, as Aunt Lysa had always said. It seemed more plausible now why Lord Royce wanted desperately to find his daughter a prosperous match.

Then it dawned on Sansa. That’s why they were here. Myranda made a point that her father was trying to secure a wealthy husband for her that fateful night. Sansa tried to recall what Petyr had mentioned in her room just this morning.

_I never wanted to go to that damned ball but did so for reasons that did not involve Lysa._

Oh God. Petyr was her intended in Lord Royce’s matchmaking. He had a grand title, lands, estates, wealth… everything the Royce’s desperately needed regardless of Petyr’s sordid reputation. Lord Royce seemed to have no issue with selling his only daughter to a man that needed acceptance within the court. An old family name such as theirs was perfect for him.

Sansa followed the trio into the parlor where the footman had made ready some refreshments for his lordship’s visitors. She sat on a settee across from Myranda, who cozied up to Petyr as Lord Royce planted his round body into one of the leather chairs.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone before I left for Kings Landing,” Petyr attempted at light conversation and avoiding looking at Sansa all together.

“Oh, the horses needed rest as we were going to stop at Lord Holloway’s Town, but Myranda insisted that we come a little further to Harrenhal. She rather hoped that you would be here. I’m sure we would have received gracious hospitality regardless in your absence,” Lord Royce said glancing at Sansa as he drank his whiskey.

Petyr certainly caught the man’s meaning just as Sansa did.

“Lady Sansa is more than accommodating as far as a gracious hostess need be. Had you arrived during my absence, I have no doubt she would have taken care of your every need,” Petyr offered politely.

Petyr wasn’t expecting any guests before winter, that was clear enough. Perhaps he did not want anyone to know she was his ward, that he was keeping a traitorous girl in his house. It certainly would have been shocking to the Royces’ arriving at Harrenhal only to find the duchess’ out-cast as lady of the house.

Was this the reason why Petyr wrote to Edmure trying to send Sansa back to Riverrun? He had plans to marry Myranda, making Sansa’s presence a complication? How could Petyr know the animosity between the two women? Perhaps it didn’t matter. She was just a prize he had won and then didn’t know what to do with afterward. Myranda certainly put on a good show pretending to be long, lost friends from the Vale.

Observing the scene before her, Sansa couldn’t help but inwardly smile at how uncomfortable Petyr was in this moment. He was a good actor for the Royce’s bought into his graciousness and pleasantry. Oh, how would they love to know that just last night, the marquess was in the throes of passion with the dreaded, unwanted traitor? Would that be enough to ruin this potential engagement? Sansa wondered just how desperate Royce and Petyr were for a marriage between their houses. Or would he throw Sansa out just to save his own skin by denouncing him as the lecher he was?

Glancing down at Myranda’s hand, Sansa did not see a ring or anything signifying that she was betrothed. Perhaps, after a year since that night at the Eyrie, matters still had not been solidified. Myranda seemed awfully familiar with Petyr, but then again, she was more than familiar with most men she had eyes for. She was older than Sansa and far from virtuous. In hindsight, Sansa had to concede a little for she did let Petyr get away with more than a chaste kiss.

“Petyr, when do you leave for the capital? Surely, it must be soon for the weather is about to turn. You mustn’t leave me alone in court, _darling_. I would be absolutely bored with all those little boys,” Myranda laid it on thick, and Sansa had to refrain from rolling her eyes. She really had this coy act perfected. Yet, Petyr himself seemed to dislike coquettish attributes in women, and Sansa wondered if Myranda was over-playing her hand.

“Ah, well, I have some business to attend to before I leave. I can’t say exactly when I’ll travel south,” Petyr hedged.

“Oh dear, I rather hoped you would leave with us,” she said eyeing Sansa. “I imagine winter here will be quite lonely being so far away from cities. Poor Sansa, just what will you do with all your time?”

Sansa smiled serenely, “I’m actually looking forward to the peace and quiet here. I have plenty to fill my days.”

“Of course, you’re from the north, I almost forgot. Your kind seems to flourish in the freezing cold in the middle of nowhere,” Myranda spoke with sweetened vitriol. She then turned to Petyr, “I, however, would need extra warmth on such cold nights.”

“Myranda!” her father chastised immediately as Sansa wanted to heave.

Was this the kind of woman Petyr wanted? He may have a superb taste as far as art and music, but curiously his choice in female company was abysmal. The type of loose women he was rumored to cohort within Kings Landing wasn’t much better. A cad –  that’s all he really was. A man that loved wealth, power, and wanton women. Well, if that’s what he wanted, he was more than welcome to it, Sansa thought.

“Father, it’s only us. Sansa couldn’t care less,” Myranda shot back.

Petyr’s body language strangely did not match that of Myranda’s as he stood suddenly.

“My dear, would you like a tour?” he inquired courteously.

“Yes, indeed. I’ve been dying to see this house for ages,” she drawled seductively. Sansa thought this could be her moment to get away.

“Lady Sansa, if you be so kind to escort Lord Royce,” Petyr ordered, and Sansa tried not to sigh in disappointment. She didn’t know how long she could be gracious under pressure for she couldn’t stand the daughter or her father.

“Of course, my lord, if you wish it,” she replied as the foursome strolled to the grand gallery.

Lord Royce apparently didn’t want a tour any more than Sansa wanted to play hostess. Petyr spoke about his beautiful paintings. Sansa watched as Myranda pretended to be interested but had no clue what he was talking about as Lord Royce didn’t bother to hide his boredom. They wandered from room to room as Myranda linked her arm with Petyr’s while he talked about architecture and the history of Harrenhal. Once they entered the ballroom, did Myranda’s face finally light up.

“Can you imagine the grand balls you could host in this room? Just think of it, kings and queens, all of society. By then, surely the king will make you a duke, don’t you agree?” Myranda twirled and giggled as she tried to pull Petyr with her, but he resisted gently.

“I’m afraid I’m not an accomplished dancer, my dear,” he insisted. Sansa had to hold back the laughter that was threatening to bubble up. He was an excellent dancer if Myranda had paid any attention during Robert’s ball.

“Then I will most happily teach you, _my darling lord_ ,” she wooed seductively. “I’d rather you step on my toes than all those young boys at every ball.”

“Perhaps, I will call on your instruction someday, just not today,” he answered cordially and took a few steps back. “Come, let me show you the music room and perhaps you may take your rest. I’ll have a lovely dinner prepared.”

In the music room, Lord Royce plopped down on the chaise lounge obviously wishing he could retire for the afternoon. Someone had to play chaperone to his daughter and keep up appearances, but for whom Sansa couldn’t comprehend. Myranda sat down at the piano and attempted to play a simple sonata that Sansa mastered by the age of twelve. Petyr stood next to the brunette and painted a false smile as she slowly destroyed a favored song. Sansa contemplated never playing that piano again after Myranda defiled it.

Soft applause was given when she finished, and Sansa desperately glanced at the stairs just outside the doorway. She could skip out now if Myranda played another tune. 

“Oh no, I’m not very good,” the brunette said with false modesty. “Sansa is far more accomplished. Any girl would be raised up north. What else is there to do but practice every day?”

“Yes, of course. Mother insisted at least four hours a day.  Otherwise, I would have spent the remaining daylight running with the wolves and playing with trolls,” Sansa retorted with glee. If Myranda was going to insist on using sweetness to lace her insults than Sansa would sarcasm.

Petyr coughed to hide what Sansa thought was a laugh. “Lady Sansa plays beautifully. Perhaps she would like to entertain you both while I – ” Petyr began, and Sansa interrupted immediately. There was not a chance in hell he was going to leave her alone with these toads.

“But Lord Baelish, you play handsomely!” she grinned and saw Petyr’s eyes harden. “Lady Myranda, you simply must hear him play. I should not be the only one to listen to such beauty.”

Myranda’s face was filled with excitement and begged him to play for her. All Sansa could do was stand back and watch the marquess squirm in disquiet. He glared at Sansa for revealing his hidden talent. Reluctantly, he sat down as Myranda moved to stand next to him.

Sansa was next to the door, as this would have been the perfect opportunity to escape. Yet now, she had the marvelous enjoyment of watching Petyr perform against his wishes.

Petyr took a moment and finally placed hands above the keys, and Sansa waited to hear which solemn melody he would play for his fiancée. His fingers stuck the keys in what surprised Sansa completely. This wasn’t a little unpolished tune that novice hands played. It was a sonata Sansa had never heard before as well as a rather difficult composition and well-rehearsed at that. As his skilled fingers drifted across the keys effortlessly, the complexity of the music was astounding not only that he played from memory but that she never anticipated such talent from this man. Petyr was by far, a very accomplished pianist, even better than her, Sansa thought in shock.

The music’s quick and bright majesty saturated the room as Myranda smiled warmly. Sansa would generally have closed her eyes and let the music fill her senses but watching him was entrancing. Petyr, completely absorbed, played as if he weren’t aware of his audience. If fact, he practically ignored the two women watching him intensely.

Sansa remembered that first night the _ghost_ played a more aggressive and passionate Moonlight Sonata. It was that quiet fury, in which he performed a most melancholy tune, that was coming out now in this decidedly more complicated piece of music.

All too quickly, it was over as Sansa caught his eyes flick suddenly towards her detecting the anger there. He was not pleased in having to perform but smiled at the brunette that endlessly praised him nonetheless.

Petyr had suggested that Myranda and her father rest from their long travels before supper, excusing himself under the guise of business that needed attending to. Sansa didn’t know if it was a lie just to escape, but she couldn’t blame him entirely. One could only take so much of Myranda at any given time.

Duncan ordered the footmen to bring up some of their luggage, and Sansa had a terrible feeling that the Royce’s were likely to spend the night. A handsome, dark-haired footman followed Petyr and Myranda as he guided her to the lavender room Sansa had vacated not too long ago. The suggestion for some reason made her blood boil. That was her room, the one he chose before all the ghostly scares. Now, he was giving it to Myranda.

Lord Royce did not even wait, as he followed Duncan to a room down the east wing. Sansa thought it would have been proper to have father and daughter near each other and not a lady alone so near to a bachelor.

“It’s lovely, just lovely,” Myranda extolled taking Petyr’s hands. “Do you really have to leave me?”

Sansa took a few steps back and tried to silently make her way to her room when Petyr raised her hand to his lips. She couldn’t watch this as her stomach threatened to purge her breakfast.

“My apologies, pet, I do have quite a bit to do. I’ll see you at supper,” he smiled, but Sansa noticed that not once did it reach his eyes today. He slipped away down the hallway into his study, closing the door just as Sansa turned the corner towards her own room.

Dear God, if she had to watch this horrid display all night, she would rather spend the evening in the stables. Sansa didn’t realize she was pacing her bedroom when someone rapped on her door and entered before she could say a word. The brunette practically twirled in with a smile. Lady growled on her bed, and Sansa shushed her before picking the little wolf up.

“Why do come in,” Sansa muttered in annoyance. “How did you know this was my room?”

“Oh, one of those silly little maids told me,” Myranda said inspecting Sansa’s bedroom with a smirk. “This is pretty, isn’t it? Not as lovely as mine, though. Strange, he gave you this entire wing to yourself and far away from his side of the house.”

Sansa sat down, holding Lady on her lap as the pup growled at barked at the intruder.

“Is that… a wolf?” Myranda grimaced.

“Yes. What of it?” Sansa asked, not caring to know the answer.

“Hmph. Figures,” she muttered and sat down. “Enough of this charade. Why are you here, Sansa?”

“I might ask the same about you,” Sansa smiled petting Lady. “I see you found yourself a wealthy husband.”

“Jealous?” Myranda smirked.

“Not in the least,” Sansa replied, not sure if it was a lie or not. “He’s a hand full.”

The brunette smiled wickedly, “Oh, is he?”

Sansa blushed understand what the girl meant with that implied innuendo. She couldn’t exactly throw this malicious chit from her room without getting an earful from Petyr. This brat could be his new wife and mistress of the house, and that placed Sansa in a very precarious position that she just couldn’t stand.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sansa answered with feigned innocence.

“Of course you wouldn’t, little virgin,” Myranda chuckled. “Well, that at least answers one of my questions. Clearly, he hasn’t touched you. I just assumed that’s why you were here. A man has needs that must be satisfied – even way out here. Which leads me to ask again. Why are you here?”

“Why don’t you ask him? I wasn’t given a choice,” Sansa grumbled, not wanting to talk to Myranda at all.

Suddenly, Lady leapt down before Sansa could grab her. The little wolf charged over to the brunette grabbing a mouthful of her rose skirt tugging back hard enough to tear a long strip away.

“Lady, no!”

“You little beast!” Myranda wailed pulling on her ruined skirt. She went to kick at the little wolf when Lady took off out into the hallway while Myranda chased after her.

Lady had made it all the way down towards Petyr’s study when Myranda grabbed her by the scruff of her neck, making the animal yelp in pain.

“No! Give her to me,” Sansa pleaded softly.

“I could break her neck right now,” the girl sneered.

“Don’t! She didn’t hurt you, she’s just a pup,” Sansa cried in vain.

“What in the hell is going on out here?” Petyr barged out of his study, glaring at the two women.

Myranda grinned nastily at Sansa and suddenly turned to Petyr with the most beautiful smile.

“Darling, we were only playing. Sansa’s dog got loose, and I was only trying to catch her. Silly me, she snagged my dress by accident. I just love little dogs,” she beamed, holding Lady tightly against her chest.

Petyr’s eyes suspiciously looked between the smiling woman and the one breathless with worry. Slowly, he walked up to Myranda and took Lady out of her hands. The pup cuddled into him for protection as he strode over to Sansa, giving her the little wolf.

“Sansa, will you do your best to keep her in your room today?” Petyr asked coolly before going back to Myranda. “I can have one of the maids mend your dress if you like.”

Sansa’s heart burned. Was he really going to believe that liar? Had he not come out when he did, Sansa thought for sure Myranda would have hurt Lady.

“No need, this is one of the old dresses that I only use for traveling, so I don’t ruin the others,” she smiled prettily.

“If you wish,” he replied and eyed Sansa again. “Ladies, the last thing I want to do is to appear rude, but I have a mountain of work and need some peace and quiet. If you could… _play_ elsewhere, please.”

“You could never be rude, my lord,” Myranda said sweetly. “It’s my fault. I haven’t seen Sansa for ages, and I’ve missed her so much. It was like losing a sister, really. We’ll be quieter, I promise… _darling_.”

Petyr didn’t say a word and retreated back into his study, closing the door. Sansa turned to go back to her room when Myranda didn’t follow but instead opened the door leading to the Marchoiness’ suite.

“What are you doing?” Sansa whispered harshly looking to Petyr’s study door. “You’ll get us both in trouble.”

“Just looking…” Myranda grinned and without a second thought, stepped into the room. Sansa crept over to the open door looking inside and glancing back to Petyr’s door.

Myranda ran her hands across the gilded furniture and like a spoiled child, plopped onto the bed, sinking in. She acted as if the room were hers.

“Have you ever seen such a beautiful room?” she murmured to herself. “And it’s mine. All of this is mine.”

The audacity of this woman was astounding, Sansa thought. Sadly, if it were true, it would belong to her soon enough. Sansa clutched Lady to her bosom and felt sick. No, she could not live with Myranda as the lady of the house. Not in a million years. She would rather suffer her aunt’s bouts of madness before the smug cruelty that Myranda surely would bring not only to her but the servants.

“I will have the finest clothes and jewels,” the brunette sang to herself on the bed. “We will host the most splendid parties.” Myranda giggled to herself and turned to look at Sansa. “Perhaps if you’re lucky, and I can persuade him, we’ll give you a little cottage somewhere. Or you could be governess to our children? Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

Sansa couldn’t dream up anything worse right now. Myranda pushed herself off the bed and sashayed towards Sansa out the door, closing it behind her.

“Of course, I will have to insist he not buy you beautiful dresses. Servants don’t wear such finery as this,” she smirked as Lady shrank into her mistress’ arms. “And the first thing I will do is tie that little beast in a sack and drown it in the lake. See you at supper, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa barely made it to her room, as the tears streamed down her face. She bolted her door and never wanted to leave again. How could Petyr wish to marry a woman like that? It was just getting worse and worse. Sansa wished she had never come to this place.

She set Lady on the bed and the pup snuggled into her as Sansa lay back on the mattress. Had she not come here, Lady would be dead already with her mother, she sighed. Sansa glanced at the porcelain clock on the mantle. It would be a few hours before supper, and she dreaded having to go downstairs and pretend to be courteous. Sansa curled into her pillow and closed her teary eyes. There had to be a way out of this.

When she woke, it was dark outside her window, much darker than it should be. Sansa sat up and looked at the clock. It was well past midnight! How did she sleep all this time and no one bothered to wake her for dinner? Sansa stood and caught her reflection in the mirror, sighing.

Dear God, she looked terrible. She must have tossed and turned the entire time. Her hair was a mess, and the dark circles under her eyes were practically black. Sansa stoked the fire and spied a little piece of paper under her door, which was bolted just as she left it.

Sansa bent down and picked up the folded parchment. It was Petyr’s handwriting. 

 

 _I never took you for a coward._  

_If you wish to hide in your room, so be it._

 

The paper crumpled in Sansa’s hand before landing in the fire. Why should she care what Petyr does? Let Myranda have him, they deserve each other, Sansa frowned. After he leaves for Kings Landing, Sansa could take Lady, Misty, and whatever she could carry and runaway. It would take days before he would even be able to do anything about it, even if Duncan sent a raven. Myranda was right on one thing, Sansa was from the north, and northerners knew how to handle the snow and cold. Sansa would find a way. Nothing would keep her here to play servant to that wretched woman come spring.

Her stomach growled, and Lady whined a little. They were both hungry since missing supper. Still dressed in her lavender dress, Sansa left Lady in her room with a single candle as she crept downstairs into the kitchens. Surely, Mrs. Ames would have something that would satisfy.

The embers were low as she rummaged around plating some fruits, cheese, bread and some scraps for Lady. There was wine left in the decanter on the sideboard, but it didn’t smell right. Stealing a bottle of port, Sansa left her candle to take it with her. The moon was bright tonight, and she wouldn’t really need the extra light to go back upstairs.

Taking a short cut through the grand dining hall instead of the gallery and foyer, Sansa heard noises coming from the direction of the music room. Judging by the time, it was undoubtedly Petyr’s witching hour and wondered who he was going to scare away tonight. To hell with him, she thought bitterly. It didn’t involve her anymore as she made her way silently towards the staircase.

As Sansa neared, the noises grew a bit louder yet sounded restrained at the same time. When a woman’s groan echoed softly, Sansa’s foot stalled on the first step. After the other nights, Sansa knew what kind of sound that was. The feeling and image of Petyr doing pleasurable things to Myranda flashed in her mind and made her stomach clench.

Against all better judgment, Sansa crept to the double doors which were only open a crack. The grunts and moans were more distinct, and Sansa knew she shouldn’t be here.

“Oh _darling_ , that’s it,” Myranda’s voice drawled in pleasure. “Right there.”

Sansa’s stomach dropped as the seductive words left Myranda’s mouth. Peering through the thin space between the doors, Sansa saw the brunette with her shift gathered around her waist as a man was thrusting between her spread legs on the chaise lounge. The piano was partially blocking them, but when the man’s head came up, it was pitch black hair with a little bit of curl at the back. Sansa felt somehow betrayed.

“Yes, you feel so good, my darling,” she moaned bucking against him. “We won’t have to hide from Father anymore, and you will be fucking a great and respected lady of the court.”

Sansa heard his grunts accompanied by the slapping of skin and remembered how Petyr’s fingers felt stroking between her legs in the pool. She felt how hard he was and imagined how it would feel to have Petyr make her his. Now, he was rutting with a woman she despised on the same lounge where she drew his portrait what felt like ages ago.

She couldn’t listen anymore and scurried to the staircase when she heard Myranda’s cry of release. Sansa bolted her door and set down the makeshift dinner on the table as Lady wagged her tail with the excitement of her return.

Sansa took a deep drink from the bottle of port to forget.  The sweetness of figs burned her throat, but she didn’t care. No, this wasn’t hurt. This wasn’t jealousy. One can’t be jealous of a man such as him. He was nothing to her, and she was clearly nothing to him. Petyr did say he was going to send her back to Riverrun until her uncle refused on the basis that she was now ruined. Sansa was just some sordid little game until she became a burden. Petyr needed to marry into a family name in good standing with the court and having Sansa around was obviously going to be problematic.

Perhaps the Royce’s were in on his secret plans in which something was hidden below this house. Maybe everyone in this house knew what was going on except her. Mrs. Ames probably didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and Duncan seemed to know that Sansa’s time here would be short-lived.

Oh, Sansa wished Petyr would leave with them tomorrow, and she wouldn’t have to deal with any of it at least until the end of winter. She unlaced her dress and tossed it on the chair while Lady gobbled up her supper heartily. Sansa was so sick to her stomach; the food on her plate went untouched. Sansa lay down on her bed and knew she would never get any sleep tonight.

_Curse you, Petyr!_

Had she not experienced what that kind of passion and pleasure could be, tonight’s revelation would not have hurt so much. Sansa could still taste his mouth and how his touch burned her skin, and she could feel how much he wanted her. In the end, he pushed her away and yet he was downstairs fucking Myranda instead. Perhaps, after all, it was she Petyr was fantasizing about that night. It was her he really wanted.

Puttinfg the bottle to her lips again, Sansa wondered if men bothered with a glass when they really wanted to get drunk.  All too soon the alcohol’s haziness pulled a soft veil over her. The port was stronger than she thought. She wanted to sleep, but all she could hear was the erotic coupling of two people in pleasure.

Her candle flickered low on the table, as it created shadows on the wall from the sculpture. Mars was arched over Venus in a sensuous embrace. The flame danced slowly, and the shadows seemed to move, Sansa thought.

Mars groaned in desire as his head dipped down to Venus’ neck. Her body arched into him as Sansa heard her own moans in tandem from the other night. The shadow danced and writhed as Mars began thrusting into Venus as Sansa felt that aching heat again between her legs.

 _You are mine_ , a voice eerily similar to Petyr’s echoed in passion.

Sansa glanced at the painting, and the girl was staring directly at her as her naked hips gyrated in wanton need. Her hand had disappeared between her legs, and Sansa could feel his fingers grazing her. Sansa gathered her chemise up, baring her thighs, feeling the cool air upon her wetness. The girl threw back her head as her hips pumped harder in the air as if her lover were watching her and waiting for him to come and release her from such sweet agony.

Unable to stop herself in such a foggy haze, Sansa reached between her legs touching her slick arousal. Petyr’s fingers had coaxed and teased, making her throb with need. Her fingers circled what he called her little rosebud, and a fire blazed. Sansa had never touched herself before. She had felt that dull ache occasionally with dirty thoughts but never knew how to bring her own pleasure until Petyr forced it out of her.

The shadows on the wall fucked as Venus thrust back in time with Mars. The painting was writhing, as Sansa rubbed herself harder and harder, feeling the throbbing build with more intensity. One finger dipped inside and then another lightly thrusting. It hurt a little at first, but the throbbing became stronger, and she needed to come, as Petyr described it.

She heard his voice in her head as he told her what he wanted to do to her. Lying on the bed with her legs spread, Sansa looked down and could almost see his head between her legs. Her fingers worked harder and faster, and the feeling of his tongue in her mouth and how it would feel down there made her back arch.

Sansa had no control of her voice. She heard her growls as she bucked against her fingers, feeling that blinding pleasure rack her body and mind. Unconsciously, Sansa brought her fingers to her lips, curious as to what Petyr would have tasted. It was musky yet a little sweet and the idea was so foreign to her and wicked, that she couldn’t help but blush.

Wiping her fingers on the linen, Sansa sighed in discontent. She had just pleasured herself, and it bliss, but she wanted more. Sansa knew that side to a man now, and the desire was addicting. How she wished that Petyr had never kissed her, never touched her. Ignorance was bliss, but now that she had eaten from the tree of knowledge, Sansa couldn’t erase those desires from her mind.

She glanced back at the painting, and it hung there as it always had – motionless. The candle was almost out, but the shadow of the sculpture did not move, and Sansa wondered if she had imagined it all. If she was lucky, perhaps she walked in her sleep downstairs, and nothing ever happened between Myranda and Petyr. Before her eyes closed, the moonlight streamed through the window shining on the plate of food and the empty bottle of wine.

There was a hard knock on her door that finally roused Sansa from bed. Her legs were cold, and Sansa could see that her chemise was still up around her thighs. Quickly, she pushed it down and slipped on her dressing gown before unlocking her door.

Sarah came in with a breakfast tray, but the idea of eating made Sansa’s stomach churn. The maid set it on the bed and petted Lady giving her a bone, presumably from last night.

“Lord Baelish says you’re to eat and dress,” Sarah mumbled hurriedly as she looked through Sansa’s wardrobe.

Sansa looked at the time, and it was only ten after eight.

“Why the rush? It’s early. I highly doubt Lady Myranda has even risen yet,” Sansa muttered sleepily.

“I do believe his lordship said that Lord Royce wanted to leave early this morning for Kings Landing,” Sarah explained.

“Well, he doesn’t need me down there to say good riddance to them,” Sansa chuckled picking through her breakfast and giving some bread to Lady.

“I’m only doing as he commanded, my lady,” Sarah spoke nervously as she laid out her blue dress.

“I know. Don’t worry, I’ll be ready to act the part of traitorous witch turned good little hostess for him,” Sansa teased letting the maid finally laugh a little.

“She’s a nasty piece of work, that one,” the maid whispered. “We had hoped his lordship was going to marry you. I can’t work for a woman like that, no matter how kind the master is. The only one that seems to adore her is Duncan. He says she’s a real lady and will bring order to the house. Ugh, I’d rather milk goats for the rest of my life than have her ordering me around. You’ve been so kind to everyone… I just can’t imagine – ”

“Sssh, I understand. It’s all right,” Sansa said softly. All her memories of Aunt Lysa and how terribly she treated the servants came flooding back. Myranda, it seemed, learned a thing or two from the Duchess. “We’ll just have to take it as it comes. At least we’ll have the winter and maybe part of the spring before they return.”

They both laughed at the ridiculous situation they found themselves in. Sansa ate a little of her breakfast when she heard Sarah mutter something.

“I’m sorry?” Sansa asked as the maid pulled the linens away, seeing a tiny stain of blood. Last night came back in a whirl, and Sansa blushed pink.

“I said, it looks as though your menses have started,” the girl said, pulling the soiled linens from the bed. “That must be why you did not come to dinner last night.”

“Oh yes,” Sansa chuckled nervously. “I wasn’t feeling well since yesterday morning. I only came down because Lord Petyr asked me to.”

“Well, he wasn’t too happy about your absence last night,” the maid responded harshly. “Men will never understand these things. It’s not as though we can help it. Don’t be ashamed next time, and bolt your door. I’ll bring your supper to you,” Sarah smiled warmly.

“Thank you,” Sasna replied in kind. “Well,” she huffed, picking up her corset, “we best not let the king and queen wait too long for me.”

Sansa came downstairs as the footmen were loading Lord Royce’s carriage. The handsome one, belonging to Royce, winked at her as he hauled a rather large trunk out the door. Myranda’s shrill voice could be heard from the dining room as she argued with her father. They couldn’t leave fast enough, Sansa wished.

“You will behave yourself when we get to the capital, young lady,” Lord Royce rebuffed his daughter as she followed stomping her feet like a child. “I will not have you be smudging my name with these antics. You’re to be presented before the king, for God’s sake, behave like a lady.”

“Heavens, you’re old fashioned father,” Myranda whined. “The Lannisters have one of the worst reputations of any family, yet they’re royalty.”

Lord Royce marched past Sansa and grunted in her direction.

“Good morning, my lord,” she tried to hide her smile.

Myranda was talking in low whispers to Duncan as he draped her traveling cloak around her shoulders. Occasionally, Myranda would dart in her direction. Sansa wondered what she could possibly want to discuss with that old man.

Gentle hands touched her shoulders from behind, and Sansa knew it was Petyr. Disgusted, she shrugged him off and moved away before eyes glanced their way.

“I’m actually surprised to see you this morning,” Petyr mused. Sansa hated his smug tone.

“Still think me a coward, do you?” she retorted quietly. “I happened to be ill yesterday whether you believe it or not.”

“Oh? Shall I call for the doctor?” he asked in disbelief.

“If you wish, it’s only that condition we women are blessed with every month,” she whispered, not caring what he thought. Usually, that was a statement that would make men run from the room. They did not want to know such things, let alone hear them.

“Ah, that is good news,” Petyr chuckled sarcastically, “as I’m happy to know that you are not with child.”

Sansa clenched her fists. If he continued any longer, she wouldn’t care if she punched him in front of his future bride.  

“You’re a bastard, and I hate you,” she seethed. “Do us all a favor and go with them today.”

“Sadly, I had to reject such a tempting invitation already this morning. I told Myranda that I would leave in a day or two,” Petyr laughed as they walked out the front doors. “I’m sure it would have been a – mentally stimulating carriage ride.”

Petyr’s sarcasm tried to mask a tone that gave Sansa pause. Myranda flounced her way over to them, making a scene of tearful departure and Sansa did everything she could not to flinch when the brunette embraced her as if they were the best of friends. She leaned up and kissed Petyr chastely on the cheek, and Sansa wondered who they were fooling. He helped her into the carriage nodding to Lord Royce before the door was closed. The horses pulled away as Sansa finally released a sigh of relief.

_Thank God that was over. Now, all that was left was for Petyr to pack his things and follow suit._

“Well, that would have been a horribly unpleasant ride, the four of us cramped in that carriage,” Petyr said, walking back into the house.

Sansa thought she had misheard him and followed Petyr into the foyer.

“Excuse me? The four of us?” she asked incredulously.

“Even if we took my carriage which is far more spacious and comfortable… no, no, I simply could not do it,” he continued on ignoring her question

“What are you talking about?” Sansa prickled. She was so tired of his games.

“In the commotion, I seem to have forgotten to tell you?” Petyr japed again, and Sansa was very close to slapping him. Suddenly, it hit her.

_No!_

_Oh, no, no, no._ It couldn’t be what she was thinking. Sansa felt like she was standing in her uncle’s home that fateful morning when Petyr broke the news that changed her life.

“Have the maids pack your things, sweetling. You’re coming with me to Kings Landing.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chopin Piano Sonata No. 1 Allegro maestoso in C minor — Chopin composed this piece at the age of 18. This is the first movement in the sonata.
> 
> There's a bit of angst in the next few chapters due to misunderstandings, plus some fluff and smut. Other characters are introduced and we get to see what a bit of Petyr's "Kings Landing" (aka Littlefinger) persona at play.


	16. Chapter 16

 

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Petyr pulled the fur up for the chill in the air biting as the carriage drove passed the icy lake. Winter had come earlier than expected as he glanced at Sansa whom he expressed advised to dress warmly for their travel. When the Royces arrived, Petyr immediately put plans into motion for Duncan and Mrs. Ames until the spring. A few ravens were sent to signal his arrival and prepare for a lady at his house in Kings Landing.

Sansa went out of her way to avoid him until their departure this morning. Petyr couldn’t blame her, really. She was going to find out about Lady Myranda. He had hoped it wouldn’t have been so soon. Now, with their unexpected visit, all of Joffrey’s court would know he was caring for the last remaining Stark. However, leaving her alone in Harrenhal wasn’t wise nor was the implication that he had something to hide.

No, she had to come with him now whether Petyr had wished it or not. He couldn’t allow Lady Myranda or her father to spread gossip and cast any doubt. They were just as power-hungry as any in the ton, and Petyr made no illusions about Myranda’s false seductions. He was no more marrying her for love than she.

Although, dealing with Royce and bedding his daughter was a better route than marrying Lysa, whom he couldn’t abide for longer than a day. The Royce’s would give him an edge considering their desire for more land and titles in the Vale. Once Lysa was gone and young Robert on his own, the boy would only take the advice of his beloved uncle. Lysa’s death would be suspicious in any case, and it would be better if Petyr were not seen as the direct beneficiary to such a thing.

Three hours rolled on while Sansa had hardly said a word sitting across from him. She was dressed in her wool and fur-lined pelisse yet still huddled under the extra furs. Lady, the little pup, occasionally would poke its head out as her mistress refused to leave her behind. Petyr tried to argue that Kings Landing was no place for a wolf, but Sansa wouldn’t hear of it. She said she would worry the entire time and Petyr thought it best to let his sweetling have her way. He was going to hear it all winter, she threatened.

Petyr knew Sansa didn’t want to go. Society had never been kind to her, and it was surely going to be an ugly affair. Their futures, now sealed, meant Petyr couldn’t hide her in the country as he had hoped for a little while longer. He would have to deal with Joffrey. Protecting Sansa would hurt her and Petyr dreaded it all the same. He knew what was coming as he glanced at her and Petyr wondered if she did too on some level.

Loosening his cravat, Petyr cursed under his breath. Early this morning, he had been feeling steadily worse for wear. The headache he contributed to the stress of quickly re-arranging his plans had not abated. Usually, Petyr thrived on chaos, and it never affected him mentally or physically, but the carriage ride was almost unbearable.

Petyr’s head was pounding as the rocking had turned his stomach sour. Twice, they had to stop in fear that he might retch. Petyr said he needed to stretch his legs as he breathed in the cold air, but the skeptical look on Sansa’s face told a different story. Indeed, he felt terrible and wished there was a quicker way to get to Kings Landing.

Checking his pocket watch, it would be close to sunset before they reached the Ivy Inn. Lady leapt from her mistress’ warmth onto his lap and gently pawed at his arm for attention. It was the first, Petyr noticed, that Sansa honestly looked at him. There was something in her eyes that he couldn’t place. Yes, there was anger there, but some hidden emotion lingered just beneath the surface.

“Lady, come here. He doesn’t want to be bothered,” Sansa patted her lap.

The stubborn wolf arched her back and settled down in the crook of his arm, making Petyr smile for the first time today. He had to admit; he was becoming very fond of this bundle of white fur with its blue eyes. His gloved hand stroked along her spine, and the animal stretched out across his lap in pleasure. Petyr glanced at Sansa and saw a hint of jealousy. This was her pet after all, and it abandoned her for him, he smirked.

“You don’t look well,” she said, studying him.

“You’re finally speaking to me, and that’s all you can say?” he smiled sarcastically.

“I have nothing to talk about,” she muttered, looking out the window again.

“Oh, I believe you have quite a bit to say,” he chuckled, forcing her to frown. “I’m sure when the time is right, we’ll have _plenty_ to talk about. In the meantime, if you wish to continue ignoring me, then I’ll stop pretending to be courteous and get some sleep.”

“It never stopped you before,” Sansa quietly shot back. Petyr enjoyed nothing more than to spar with her, but the more he spoke, the more his throat hurt.

He never got sick. Petyr couldn’t remember the last time he had ever been ill. There was much to do once they arrived in Kings Landing, and lying in bed for days was going to set him back. Petyr was trying hard not to let the irritability come to the forefront yet he couldn’t help but bristle at her current demeanor. He had apologized for that night, had he not? Did Sansa intend to hold it against him forever?

What was more strange was the underlying hostility between Sansa and Myranda. Petyr knew now why Lysa cast her out but just how bad was it for Sansa at the Eyrie? Lady Myranda and her father were easy enough to read and frankly being merely annoyed with them wasn’t surprising, but Sansa’s behavior was controlled hatred.

Clearly, she wasn’t happy about the idea of his engagement to the Royce girl. Hell, Petyr wasn’t thrilled with it. It was a necessary evil. She wasn’t an ugly woman nor bedding her would have been torture. However, now after tasting the delectable strawberry who sat across from him – the idea of marriage to Myranda was more than burdensome.

He should never have kissed Sansa, Petyr thought sadly. A kiss wasn’t nearly enough and only inflamed such fantasies. The feel of her body, the way she clutched him in ecstasy struck every nerve. Petyr never wanted a woman more than in that moment in the spring beneath the house. Had sensibility not taken over, he would have fucked her right there – and Sansa would have hated him for it.

The look of shame on her flushed face was too much to bear. It was a moment of weakness on her part. Petyr forced it out of her, making Sansa ashamed and regretful. His body and cock ached with need, but he would never take her against her will. That Sansa had been willing – if only for a moment, filled his dreams with her in his bed.

After that day at the market, Petyr felt he had made ground with Sansa. A fleeting moment of lust between them seemed to have created an ever-widening chasm. He had enjoyed their quiet evenings in the library, eagerly anticipated a ride or stroll, and a smile found a home on his face when the soft music of her on the piano echoed up to his study.

Petyr watched her with half lidden eyes. She was indeed beautiful, more beautiful than her mother had ever been. Sansa had Cat’s fire, but years of living as a prisoner had almost snuffed out that flame. After everything they had put this girl through, Sansa was still strong, kind, and compassionate.

Saving her from those men at Riverrun started a chain reaction he wasn’t fully prepared for. It was an indulgent thing bringing her to Harrenhal. Petyr thought he could keep the past where it belonged, but the need to protect her was overwhelming. If it had been possible, he would have smuggled her away from the Eyrie the first time they met.

Watching her now, there was nothing Petyr wanted more than to see her smile – one that was pure and honest when he gave her the mare. That was true happiness, and it became a drug to him – until he kissed her behind that tree. Petyr swore he could keep it under control. He would provide for her as he promised and keep her safe for that’s what he had intended.

Now, he needed to possess everything about her. Sansa had to be his. No, he couldn’t marry Lady Myranda now and insulting Lord Royce would not bode well. Petyr had to find another way to get out of this engagement. He knew Kings Landing society would reject Sansa unequivocally. By the time they reached the capital, Petyr had wagered everyone would learn about Sansa. He would use that to his perceived disadvantage. Petyr wasn’t considered so much a fop, but definitely not manipulative enough to use a traitor’s pretty daughter for any use other than the obvious.

It pained Petyr knowing he would have to play the part and use this girl. He would let them belittle her and call her a whore. He suspected she had already been subjected to as much in the Vale. It was the only way to make it acceptable for a titled man, even one such as himself, to keep her and not raise suspicions. Petyr was convinced she wouldn’t be safe anywhere or with anyone else. Once he paraded her around the city, it wouldn’t take long. She would want to return to Harrenhal, and the king would suspect nothing more. Surely, what other use would a man like him have for a young woman like her?

Petyr wasn’t sure what made him queasier at this moment. Was it the cold, bumpy ride, or the idea of what was about to happen to Sansa that made him want to leap from the carriage? She would never understand that it was to protect her. Petyr often wondered why he didn’t just leave her in Riverrun, sending monthly allowances to her and Mrs. Cole. Now, it was too late.

He closed his eyes and tried to will nausea away petting Lady. At some point, Petyr must have drifted off when he felt a soft handkerchief dab his forehead. Sansa was leaning over him with concern written all over her face. Perhaps she didn’t completely hate him as he suspected.

“You’re feverish, my lord,” she told him with a slight frown.

“ _Petyr_ ,” he corrected her with a half-smile.

He glanced outside and knew the inn was nearby as the sun was low on the horizon. Lady was still in his lap gnawing at his index finger playfully as Petyr unbuttoned his collar, that threatened to choke him. Every muscle in his body ached, and he was sweating profusely.

“You need to bring that fever down and rest. How much further is the inn?” Sansa asked worriedly.

“Not far now,” Petyr replied, feeling worse than he did this morning.

She pulled the basket from under the cushioned seat that contained a bit of food and wine that Mrs. Ames had packed for them. Sansa uncorked the Chablis and doused the handkerchief.

“What are you doing?” he asked as she started pulling his cravat away and unbuttoned his collar further.

“It’s not quite as good as spirits, but I don’t have any water to help cool your skin,” Sansa explained with annoyance when he lightly pushed her hands away as she tried to use the damp cloth on his face and neck.

“Ugh, don’t. I’ll smell like a cask of wine,” Petyr groaned.

“An improvement from reeking like whiskey all the time,” she retorted swatting his hands. “Besides, whom are you aiming to impress at an inn in the middle of nowhere?”

If Petyr wasn’t so feverish, he might have detected a touch of possessiveness in her tone. Sansa was speaking to him again, and he would let her sponge him down in wine if needed. Lady started barking and distracted Sansa from her task to look out the window.

“I think we’re almost there,” she told him and muttered to herself, “I can’t wait to get out of this carriage.”

The inn was bustling as far as Petyr could see when Brune opened the door helping Sansa out. The look on the man’s face was pure confusion at his lordship’s state of dress. Petyr didn’t bother to adjust his clothing and slowly emerged from the carriage seeing Sansa waiting patiently for him with Lady tucked inside her pelisse.

“My lord, are you all right?” Brune asked cautiously.

“I’ll live,” Petyr grumbled yanking his cloak around him. “Take care of the horses and baggage. Get them warm and fed,” he instructed in regards to their men.

Sansa took his arm more to help him than for appearances. Petyr felt light of head, and all he wanted to do was lie down.

“Lord Baelish,” the innkeeper greeted. The round fellow stared at Sansa for a moment and glanced at his disheveled appearance. “I have the room you requested.”

“Room?” Petyr asked incredulously. “My letter instructed for two.”

“Oh yes, m’lord but we’re full tonight,” the innkeeper mumbled. “Lord Pemberly, along with Lord Templeton, arrived earlier. Due to the heavy rain, two of my rooms have damage because of the roof, not suitable for any nobles, especially a lady. I kept the bridal chamber for you, your lordship, and I’ll not charge you a single coin more.”

Petyr grimaced at Sansa, waiting for her to make a fuss like last time, but she didn’t say a word. Petyr’s head was spinning as he tried to focus.

“My lady absolutely must have her own room,” he insisted. “It is simply unacceptable to expect her to ruin her reputation because of your problems.”

Petyr grasped her arm a little tighter, feeling the walls closing in. He needed a bed and needed it now.

“My soon to be lord husband is being overly chivalrous and modest,” she protested graciously. “He is quite ill and needs to rest. The bridal chamber will be most satisfactory. My father need never know if you are discreet. You’ll be paid handsomely, of course.”

Petyr hid his shock at her proposal. Never would he have anticipated this considering the past few days.

“My lord?” the innkeeper asked for his approval.

“Very well, my love,” Petyr groaned. “I’m in no condition to argue.” He leaned into Sansa’s ear and whispered, “This is not wise. Surely, you will be recognized.”

Petyr scanned the inn and didn’t see anyone of importance, nor either of the earl’s mentioned a moment ago.

“I’ll stay in the room and keep my face hidden when we leave,” Sansa whispered back. “You’re ill. It would be best if lay down. I can’t leave you alone with a fever. I’m assuming you don’t want any attention brought to us as it is, yes? Demanding a second room will certainly do that. No one would question Myranda’s virtue.”

Petyr couldn’t help but detect the snide remark aimed at his future wife. He knew she had a reputation, hence why Royce probably had a difficult time finding a suitable husband for his daughter. He eyed the man directly, handing him several coins.

“My bride’s reputation is not to be tarnished by gossip for I will know where it originated and I’ll burn this place to the ground, do I make myself clear?” Petyr demanded harshly.

“Yes, my lord,” the man agreed. “I would never besmirch your lovely lady. As you said, she is to be your wife.”

The man escorted them upstairs, and Petyr barely made it to the bed before collapsing. He heard the door close as Sansa and Brune discussed him before his man left the room leaving Sansa to lock it behind him.

Wearily, Petyr took off his cloak and topcoat. By damned if he didn’t feel even worse after leaving the bloody carriage. He laid back on the lumpy mattress and cursed himself. This was not how he wanted to come back to Kings Landing.

All of a sudden, he felt his boots tugged off before Sansa pulled him up a little. The anger disappeared from her face, leaving that of an annoyed nurse with a stubborn patient. Lady was sniffing around the room and jumped up on the bed, but Sansa gently put her back down on the floor.

“Come on, let’s tuck you in. Your feet are like ice,” Sansa directed. “I sent Brune to bring my trunk and find a tub to soak in.”

“I am not using a washtub that God knows who has bathed in. I’d rather die of scarlet fever,” Petyr grumbled. “I’ll probably catch something worse.”

“Ugh, you’re such an arrogant arse, you know that?” she growled back. “I only want to soak your feet in hot water. Mother did that with us. It takes the fever out of the head. You’ll need to strip down.”

Petyr laughed, “Oh sweetling, I don’t think so.”

Sansa huffed, “You can’t shock me. I’ve seen all of you. I’m going to wet down a sheet of linen and wrap you in it while your feet soak. If you don’t behave, I’ll have Brune throw your stubborn, boiling head in the river to cool you off.”

Petyr couldn’t help the sarcastic smile. He couldn’t deny he loved irritating her. Sansa had a quick and sharp wit and didn’t hesitate to use it on him. The less time he had to spend in this God awful place, the better. All Petyr wanted was to get home and into his own comfortable, warm bed.

“Yes, doctor. Whatever it takes to get us out of here by morning,” he mumbled.

“Morning? You shouldn’t travel at all tomorrow. It could be worse,” Sansa admonished.

“Do what you must,” he bit out angrily. “We leave tomorrow. I will not spend another night here.”

A knock on the door and before long, Brune and a servant were bringing in everything Sansa requested to make him well. She pulled a small case from her trunk and set it on the table. Petyr lifted his head, watching her sift through a few small jars and sachets with what looked like a miniature apothecary most likely from Mrs. Ames.

His head pounded as the bed felt like it was on the water, making his stomach turn over again. A foul smelling powder was added to the small wooden tub, and Petyr had to keep himself from retching.

“Alright, disrobe and wrap this around you,” she ordered wringing out a large piece of linen from a basin of cold water.

Petyr sighed. Why couldn’t he just stay under the covers? Trembling in cold, wet linen in a drafty room was less appealing than her earlier threat.

“I’ll turn my back if that’s what is bothering you,” Sansa huffed and turned around but didn’t catch his smile.

He didn’t care what she saw. Petyr gathered she had an eye full and education the other night. Even when they were both in the spring, their sheer clothing did nothing to hide their bodies from each other.

Petyr berated himself instantly – that was the last thing he needed to be thinking about right now.

He sat up, removing his waistcoat and shirt before finally slipping his trousers down. Sansa backed up and held the cloth behind her until their hands touched. He was tempted for half a moment to pull her to him but decided against it. Now was not the time for games.

He wrapped the linen around him and cursed under his breath. It was cold, but at the same time, it felt good. Petyr didn’t realize how feverish he must have been. His own clothes were lightly damp with sweat sitting next to him.

“Are you decent?” she asked.

“If you can call it that,” he sighed as she turned around.

Without a word, Sansa pushed the tub next to the bed. He couldn’t place the smell, but it was horrid. Even Lady snorted at the odor coming for the small basin. Sansa removed his stockings, placing his feet in the water that forced another curse out of him. It wasn’t just hot; it was scalding!

“Sorry,” she mumbled, pouring a little cold water into the tub.

A tea kettle was boiling in the fireplace, and the scent of sweet herbs didn’t help mask the other offensive odor. Sansa wrung out another cloth and came to sit next to him. She let the cool compress touch gently around his face and the back of his neck. Petyr had to admit the gesture was sweet. She had no reason to be kind to him. He knew she was upset with him for taking advantage of her that night and not being open about the Royces before they arrived unexpectedly.

Petyr felt his head automatically leaning into her touch as he closed his eyes. All he wanted was sleep. As the cold made his body shiver uncontrollably, Petyr wondered how much longer he needed to endure this. After a time, she felt his forehead and neck and sighed.

“You’re still terribly warm,” she said. “A little while longer and then you can slip into bed, alright? I want you to drink some tea.”

“As long as it doesn’t taste like my foot bath,” he complained as she retrieved the kettle and poured a steaming cup.

Sitting next to him again, she lifted it to his lips, and it wasn’t bad at all.

“Yarrow and elderflower,” she explained as he took another sip. “It will help reduce the fever a little. You’ll need plenty of water. Nurse Burrows said it was the best thing for fevers back home.”

Petyr chuckled, “My own little witch, brewing her potions for me. Who needs a nurse?”

Sansa huffed and set down the cup.

“Shall I call the doctor instead? Depending on the direction he comes, it will be a good day’s ride, and I bet all he’ll do is bleed you. Does nothing for fevers… Mrs. Ames says most of these doctors are more apt to kill you than what ails you.”

“Does she?” he smiled. “I suppose she hasn’t taught you to poison me just yet.”

“Well, if my services are not appreciated, you can suffer on your own,” Sansa retorted and stood up before Petyr grabbed her hand. Her skin was so soft while his was cold and clammy.

“Please,” he murmured. “Forgive me. I do appreciate your efforts.”

Reluctantly, Sansa sat back down and returned to using the cool cloth on his head. After a time, the bathwater grew cold, and he was finished wearing that blasted freezing linen. Petyr shrugged it off, not caring that he was bare beneath it. He leaned across her and grabbed his shirt, slipping his arms in the sleeves, silently telling her he had had enough.

Dizziness set in as Petyr laid down and pulled the bedclothes over him, tossing the wet linen on the wooden floor. His feet were going to smell like bath that for days, he grimaced. As much as he hated to admit it, her treatment did help. He didn’t feel as hot as before, and his head wasn’t throbbing as severely.

“I’ll bring you something to eat a little later, nothing heavy mind you,” Sansa said as Petyr turned around a little too quickly making his head spin.

“Let Brune do it. You cannot go downstairs alone and unchaperoned,” he insisted. “Plus, you should not be seen as it is, _my wife_.” Petyr tugged gently on a strand of her red hair. “A memorable shade.”

Sansa pulled a wooden chair over to the bed and sat down.

“Will I be locked in a room once we reach the capital?” she asked lightly, but Petyr didn’t answer. He knew what he had planned, and it was best not to discuss it. “You didn’t say why you decided to bring me with you.”

Petyr turned on his side away from her penetrating stare while Lady hoped up on the bed to cuddle into him.

“A young woman cannot be left alone for months without a guardian or chaperon of some sort,” Petyr said testily, petting the wolf.

“Why not? No one cares about me. Mrs. Ames… even Duncan could act as such,” she replied. “It’s not as though I would be expecting visitors in your absence.”

“Stop asking silly questions,” he retorted harshly. “You are my ward, my responsibility. That is the end of it. I don’t need gossip to start about the girl I’m keeping in the country.”

“Oh, I see,” Petyr heard her anger seeping through. “I can assure you, Lady Myranda will do a fine job of that. Enough to have you send me to some convent in Sisterton.”

Sansa was a smart girl, Petyr thought to himself. It would be hard to play this game without her figuring it out. It would be best if she believed it was not his idea but forced on him. Petyr had a strong feeling if he told her he wanted to make her his wife, that she would refuse him ardently. That night in the underground spring, Petyr thought that she could learn to care for him. If she was that responsive to his touch and kisses, that perhaps… but her reaction the next day was the truth. She was ashamed, and that old hatred from the beginning resurfaced. The ground he thought he made with Sansa, evaporated.

Petyr’s own insecurities still echoed in his broken, boyish heart. Those old wounds were still fresh as if they happened yesterday. He had loved Catelyn so blindly that he couldn’t see the truth. She was his world, and then it all came crashing down one summer’s day. Petyr didn’t know how to let go.

Even now, he felt he was still trying to hold to Cat through her daughter. What Petyr didn’t expect was how much Sansa dazzled him. She was smart, honest and her wits could match his own. Sansa was kind and loving but now damaged like him.

Petyr often wondered, if he were younger, would Sansa, unlike her mother had given him a chance? Sansa surely would have had her pick of any young man, Petyr guessed. Before her family was murdered and she was thrown into the pit of obscurity and hatred, why would she ever consider a man like him?

“I would never send you to a convent or hide you away,” he whispered in answer to her question.

“But you are ashamed of me, aren’t you? That’s why you’re taking me with you. Had the Royces not come to Harrenhal, would I be here now?” Sansa asked directly. “You don’t want rumours about me to ruin your marriage chances? You don’t exactly strike me as a man that bows to the rules of decorum if you weren’t trying to marry into the good graces of society.”

She was astute, Petyr had to give her credit.

“Unlike your aunt and uncle, I don’t see the point of hiding you away or treating you as if you do not exist,” Petyr replied shortly. “Believe what you will. I simply decided that perhaps you would like to see the capital and being left alone for months wasn’t a good idea in such a remote place as Harrenhal.”

Sansa laughed bitterly, “Oh, I can see it now – strolling several feet behind you and Myranda in the park, sitting in the corner at balls, dining alone most days and nights. Maybe if I’m lucky, you’ll let me sit in the hallway outside your box and listen to my first opera. Yes, I can’t wait to see the capital.”

Petyr turned around and stared at her. Yes, Sansa knew, for her time at the Vale had taught her well.

“Am I to be judged so harshly?” he asked with a cough. “Have I treated you that badly these past few weeks?”

“You have given me shelter and lovely things, yes,” she began. “You did apologize, in your own way, I suppose. Perhaps it is the company you keep… or will keep. Your future wife will expect you to disown and send me away, I am sure. So why you intend to parade me around Kings Landing is beyond my understanding. Certainly, the Royce’s will be demanding your time and will not want me anywhere near. You could have weathered any gossip or scandal about me. Lies are all the ton wishes to hear and talk about. This isn’t about what is good for me. It’s about making sure you don’t look like your hiding something to your peers at court – for keeping a traitor’s daughter isn’t fashionable even if you’re a reprehensible scoundrel.”

As much as Sansa tried to mask it, a pang of sadness filled her blue eyes that she did not wish him to see. She was trying so hard to be strong, but they both knew what awaited her in Kings Landing.

“Well, I shall have to prove you wrong, sweetling,” Petyr sighed, laying his head down.

No, she wouldn’t marry him now, he wagered. Even a traitor’s daughter had self-respect. Had he asked sincerely, Sansa would still have question his motives. The look of shame and guilt on her face when he made her come and then the hatred the next morning, gutted Petyr. Sansa didn’t want him to touch her again much less be his wife.

 _You’re a bastard and I hate you_.

She may hate him, but at least it would keep her safe. Sansa wouldn’t understand why he was doing it. The king, the ton… they needed to believe they were in control. Petyr would let them continue believing it until the opportune moment. He knew them so well. He knew Sansa would be treated with the same contempt as he.

However, Petyr was a man with title given by the king and couldn’t be dismissed as easily as he used to be when only a lowly lord. Money bought him into power and standing. The ton may hate him, but gold kept him in the right circles. That wealth they envied but detested in his possession would bring them all down. Petyr was buying something with everything he gained after all these years. He would watch the downfall of the aristocracy – all in good time.

No, his sweetling wouldn’t understand why it had to be done this way. The king and society had to believe they pressured him into marriage. Petyr rightly assumed they thought he chose Lady Myranda for her family’s good name. Forcing him to marry Sansa would appear to work against him and Petyr would play that angle the best he could.

Petyr couldn’t announce his intentions towards Sansa without grave suspicion. No bans would be read. No asking for her hand. She would be forced to marry him. Only the king could break the arrangement he had with Royce now and Petyr was going to use it well. Joffrey was easy enough to manipulate. Petyr just needed to play the right cards at the right time.

Later in the evening, Brune brought a light supper. The stew was barely edible and Petyr did not have much of an appetite as it was. He choked down what he could, drank more of Sansa’s tea before lying down again. He gave the rest to the wolf who anxiously awaited what she knew would be hers. Sansa touched his forehead again and placed another cool, wet cloth on it.

“Please tell me I don’t have to wear that wet sheet again,” he grumbled.

“No, I don’t think so. It appears to be going down, the fever. You should stay in bed for a few more days, though,” she answered.

“We leave tomorrow. I will not endure another night here,” Petyr told her.

“So be it. If you die on the way, can you at least order Brune to return us back to Harrenhal? I don’t wish to hang just yet – especially not for your death,” she retorted calmly. “If I’m going to die, I’d rather it be for something that is worth my life.”

 “Oh sweetling, you will outlive me, rest assured,” he laughed.

Petyr watched her play the doctor with that little chest of wonders. Sansa combined some liquids and the scent of mint was almost overwhelming. She sat next to him and rubbed some of the oil on her hand. The aroma was strong as she dabbed a little near his nose and then just around his collarbone avoiding his bare chest.

It was intoxicating watching her nurse him. She was so lovely, he thought in amazement. His eyes followed her every move. She was so close, that he could almost breathe her in. A lock of hair fell from its pins and Petyr couldn’t resist. His hand drifted up and tucked the red strand behind her ear making her pause.

For only a moment, there was something behind her eyes as she looked at him. Petyr desperately wanted to know what she was thinking. If he wasn’t so ill, he would have pulled her head down and ravished her mouth. As quickly as it came, her eyes turned to stone and pushed his hand away.

“You should sleep if we’re to leave tomorrow,” she scolded lightly.

Petyr glanced around the room and fixed his tired eyes on the wooden chair next to the bed.

“And where pray tell are you sleeping tonight, my dear?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“I’ll stay up and keep an eye on you,” Sansa said unconvincingly.

Petyr scoffed, “How very dutiful. Come, you’re exhausted. Lie down.”

“With you? Absolutely not!” she feigned shock.

Petyr moved to the side of the bed and pushed her down with what little strength he had left.

“Lie down. I have no desire to touch you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m to be married after all,” he muttered and turned on his side away from her.

Petyr expected her to get up and sit in the chair but after a few minutes, he glanced over his shoulder to see she had not moved. Perhaps Sansa was more exhausted than he was. They were both stubborn as mules, Petyr decided.

The candle was low when he pulled the heavy covers up and threw them over her as she lay in a tight ball. He was still warm but clearly Sansa was cold even fully clothed in her traveling dress. Lady jumped up and curled at their feet, settling down for the night. He watched Sansa’s corseted chest rise and fall and wondered if she was truly asleep. His eyes drifted close as her hair whispered against his hand.

Petyr felt himself begin to wake to the aroma of mint and lemons as something tickled his nose. His chest still felt heavy and it was hard to breathe. His head ached and his body was warm but it wasn’t just the sickness that weighed him down. Petyr’s eyes peered open in the early morning light only to be clouded by a haze of red. It was Sansa’s hair that tickled his nose and her weight upon his chest while her arm draped around his waist. She was fast asleep. Somehow, during the night, she had curled into him and the thought made his heart skip a beat. Unconscious as it may be, Petyr didn’t care. Sansa was here, lying next to him as if it was where she was meant to be.

His arm rested next to her back as Petyr longed to caress her but he knew he couldn’t. His cock twitched between his legs and he silently cursed his own damn body. Petyr raised his knee to hide the morning erection that was threatening to make itself known. The movement must have woken Sansa, for her breathing changed. She knew where she was laying and pretended to still be asleep.

Petyr prayed she didn’t see him harden but her rigid posture said otherwise.

“Sorry, it happens to men sometimes in the morning, sweetling,” he heard his own raspy voice speak.

Slowly and deliberately, Sansa moved her arm from his waist and rolled away from him and Petyr let her. He knew she was embarrassed and even though she was nearing three and twenty, Sansa was still naïve in such things. Already missing her warmth, Petyr turned on his side away from her, letting Sansa compose herself, knowing she had probably slept in his embrace all night.

He felt her get up from the bed and sighed. Petyr would have given anything to pull her back down and sleep all day, but he knew they had to leave. Staying any longer would rouse gossip. Petyr was positive Lady Myranda had swelled the rumor mill in Kings Landing leaving him much work to be done.

Petyr let Sansa ready herself with dignity and refused to watch her, staring at the dirty window instead.

“Shall I call in Brune, my lord?” she asked quietly, tying her bonnet and lowering the lace to cover her face.

_My lord…_

Petyr sighed. They were back here again.

“Yes,” he replied. “I want to leave as soon as possible.”

He groaned trying to sit up and his head and body ached. It was going to be a dreadful ride to Kings Landing. Thankfully, it was a shorter distance.

Petyr caught his reflection in the standing mirror near the window. He was pale, with dark circles under his eyes and clearly needed a bath. He rubbed his face, rough with new whiskers and wanted to lay back down. He didn’t think he would be able to stomach any breakfast this morning and asked to have some fruit brought along with them today.

Dressing slowly, Brune helped him down the stairs to the waiting carriage. Sansa had placed a small chest between the seats, setting a few cushions on top for him, Petyr presumed. He couldn’t help the little smile. It was a tender gesture even with though the scowl on her face as he climbed inside.

Settling down and covering him with furs, the cold air didn’t help as Petyr began coughing terribly. It was an awful taste that rose to his throat.

“You stubborn bastard,” she growled, “You’ll die from the chill and I’ll be blamed for it.”

“If we’re lucky, our lost souls will go back to Harrenhal and we can truly scare the daylight out of everyone as real ghosts,” he laughed and Sansa glowered at his mockery.

As the carriage moved along at what felt like a snail’s pace, Petyr couldn’t find any comfort. His body burned and ached and even the ability to stretch out did not help. Leaning against the window was too cold but moving to the center meant pushing his feet against Sansa. His illness still did not give him leave to be rude and make her uncomfortable.

Lady left her mistress and came to curl into his lap once again and Petyr saw Sansa frown. Lady was hers, yet she chose Petyr on so many occasions. Leaning his head back and coughing horribly, Petyr now regretted leaving the inn today. If he had waited one more day, perhaps…. Ah, it didn’t matter now. They were on their way and he couldn’t stop the domino effect of what was to come.

A movement made his eyes pop open as Sansa came to sit next to him. She brought a flask to his lips and told him to drink. It was brandy and it burned his throat.

“It will help warm you,” she told him but he didn’t really hear her. That pounding and heat in his head returned with full force making him wince in pain. He unconsciously leaned into her shoulder. She was warm and smelt of sweet lemons.

The girl had moved back into the corner and in doing so, pulled him back with her.

“Here, lean against me and lie down,” she said and Petyr gratefully did as he was instructed.

Sansa pulled the heavy furs over them and let him stretch his legs out as his head lay against her soft bosom. It was hell and gone from proper, he knew, but didn’t care in this moment. She was warm and supple and that’s all that mattered. His body relaxed immediately and wondered why she had such an effect on him.

Lady found a spot between them and yawned showing her growing canine teeth. Her ears perked occasionally at a sound but finally closed her blue eyes as Petyr felt slender fingers sift through his hair. He could die right here and not care.

His mind swam to and fro, and Petyr knew he could never marry Lady Myranda. This beautiful woman that he was about to hurt terribly was holding him as if she really cared. All the awful things they had said to one another didn’t seem to matter right now. Whatever her reasons, Sansa was comforting him knowing he belonged to another, or so she thought.

Petyr closed his eyes and turned his head, resting his cheek against the swell of her chest and waited for her to swat him at his brazen move. God, he wanted to touch those silky breasts again. Her hand stilled for a minute, then resumed its soothing touch making him sigh in content.

He had not a clue what she was thinking, and she couldn’t know how he wished he could just take her far away. Plans were in motion and there was no turning back. Perhaps one day Sansa would forgive him. Even if she hated him, Petyr felt he was saving her in the long term. She may never love or understand him, but at least he could keep her safe from harm. He knew the aristocracy probably better than she did. If he could convince them to let him have her, perhaps they wouldn’t suspect him of anything else.

Just a social climber with a wife that would never be received in any household. That would put him in his place, they would say.

Oh, they didn’t know what was coming for them. In the end, it wouldn’t matter what anyone in the ton thought of his lovely wife. They would all be dead and the dead have nothing to say.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will swapping back and forth between Petyr and Sansa's POVs here on out.


	17. Chapter 17

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sansa’s new maid helped her dress for the day, and she thought the household was very welcoming. Brooks, Petyr’s butler in his townhome, was the polar opposite of Duncan. He had been gracious and kind to Sansa since their arrival three days ago. Whether he had thoughts about her in general or why Lord Baelish had acquired a woman in her early twenties as his ward. Brooks never said a word or gave a disapproving glare as the majordomo in Harrenhal took pleasure in.

When they arrived, Petyr was deathly ill and taken straight to his bed. They never should have left the inn that morning, Sansa frowned. The chill in the air only made the sickness worse, and the doctor instructed Petyr was not to leave his room for a few days. What had surprised Sansa and Brune, who never seemed to leave his master’s side, was that the doctor asked if Petyr had ingested anything unusual.

Sansa chastised herself with ignoring him after Myranda left before their own journey to Kings Landing. She didn’t notice anything wrong with him until the carriage ride south. The fever seemed so sudden and worsened quickly. Sansa had seen northerners die of consumption of the lungs and scarlet fever, yet it didn’t seem to come out of nowhere. Perhaps she had missed the signs before leaving. The doctor said Petyr would recover, but that he couldn’t rule out a possible poison.

If Sansa knew anything about Petyr, he would never allow any form of rotten food nor drink in his home, and she couldn’t fathom Mrs. Ames would be so careless. It seemed rather odd, after Royce’s departure, that Petyr would become ill.

Had it been a poison of sorts, why would the Royce’s do it? They would lose title, lands, and wealth. Lady Myranda seemed to be overjoyed at becoming the new marchioness for whatever her reasons and Lord Royce would gain by his daughter’s marriage. It did not make much sense, and Sansa wanted to believe that it was merely a fever and nothing more.

Why she should care for him at all? Apparently, Petyr had never intended for anyone to know about her it seemed. Myranda ruined that secret of his, and now he brought Sansa all the way to the capital. There was a time when Sansa would have been thrilled at coming here, but now she lived in fear as any wild animal on display in a cage. She was furious at Petyr yet at the same time felt an overwhelming need to care for him. It wasn’t so much just being ill, but the thought that someone possibly tried to poison him made a protectiveness come out in her for which Sansa couldn’t understand.

Petyr was going to marry Myranda and Sansa would end up, just as she feared, a governess or cast away to some remote place and forgotten. Petyr was only lustful that night under the house. Sansa was a woman, and if she had let him, he may very well have taken her to bed that night. In the heat of that passion, Sansa was all but consumed by him. To her shame, she probably would have let him have his way, but it was Petyr that stopped and pushed her away.

Now she understood why. Petyr was to marry Myranda. It was also entirely possible that he could have feelings for her. He didn’t make love to Sansa in the hot spring, but he clearly ravaged Myranda in the music room. Sansa wondered if they had been intimate since she saw him for the first time at the Vale. Myranda did say they wouldn’t have to hide from her father much longer. Did Petyr bring Sansa to attend his upcoming wedding perhaps? The thought made her stomach turn.

Sansa sat next to his bed and wrung out a cool cloth for his forehead. She barely left his side for the last few days. Petyr looked much better today, as color began to return to his skin. Sansa didn’t know why she felt betrayed. Was it jealousy she felt at the knowledge of him and Myranda? She was beginning to like Petyr and the time he spent with her. Sansa had hoped he might kiss her again. The way he made her body feel that night was pure bliss.

Running her fingers through his hair, she dabbed his face, keeping him comfortable. Sansa didn’t know her own heart anymore. There was no reason in the world to care for Petyr. Other than Joffrey and the Lannisters, Petyr had caused her such pain and aggravation in such a short time. She couldn’t turn back time and change anything and had to live in the present.

This lying, devious man she watched over now was all she had. There was no family left she could call her own, and without Petyr, she would be destitute. A poor, educated woman could still make her way in the world, but who would hire Sansa? The skills she possessed would be only good for teaching children or running a household and what family would be willing to take her in?

Looking at Petyr sleeping, she sighed in resignation. If all she was fit to be was a governess and housekeeper than she might as well stay with him. Petyr said himself that he would not send her away. Why should he keep her? Plainly, Myranda would put up a fight about that or make Sansa’s life miserable. Sansa wasn’t sure what bothered her more. Was it only the idea that he was marrying Myranda or that he actually _wanted_ to?

Sansa remembered her own moans of pleasure at his touch and could still hear Myranda’s lustful voice in her head. He clearly had no problem making love to his bride before marriage.

 _Marriage_.

That word hurt because even a lady of Myranda’s questionable reputation could still marry well enough. No gentleman would marry Sansa for it would degrade him. Only because she was pretty would men try to sample her wares or pay for them as a mistress, but they would never treat her like a lady or make her a wife.

Petyr was a man with a terrible reputation and only climbed as high as he did through manipulation and money. Not even a libertine, such as himself, would consider a woman like Sansa. He flirted and kissed her, of course, had his fun and games but now he was to be a married gentleman. Sansa wondered how long it would take before he sent her packing, just like everyone else.

She had pulled the curtains keeping the harsh sunlight out. Upon arrival, Sansa noticed Petyr’s bedroom smelled very much like the one in Harrenhal. Now the odor or herbs and liniments permeated the air. The entire house was almost a mirror image of the home she left by the lake. Petyr had a particular style as both homes were filled with rich colour and art.

Sansa had wandered his townhouse looking at length at all his beautiful paintings, sculptures, and the perfectly tailored garden outside. Lady was able to spend time outside without fear of losing her to the city streets. The servants thought it was odd at first, but never said a word about the dog she brought with her. Sansa believed that none of them knew what a wolf was, let alone seen one. The house was large and felt lived in as compared to Harrenhal. Petyr spent much of his time in Kings Landing, she surmised.

Many paintings hung on the vibrant damask walls throughout the house. The one in his own bedroom was quite scandalous by the artist Fragonard. “Le Verrou” depicted a young man bolting the door to his lover’s bedchamber. The French certainly did not care about shocking people.

So many works of art had begun to make their way to other countries due to the revolution taking place. The people overthrew their king, and Sansa wondered when her own countrymen would wake up to the tyranny of their monarch. Her father’s failed attempt ended before it really begun and she hated that her uncle and aunt did not stand with the family, instead bowing low to keep their precious lands and titles.

Now years later, Sansa was a kept woman masquerading as a ward to one of the most disreputable men in the country. Sansa didn’t want to admit it, but she liked Petyr when she had him to herself. He seemed a different man when they were alone at Harrenhal. She was warming to him and felt that Petyr was opening up to her a little more every day. Had he left her there, no doubt Sansa would have missed him.

Petyr was hiding something treasonous enough to perpetuate lies in order to keep his secrets safe. Harrenhal was out of the way of most important eyes of court and gentile society and a better place to hide things than in the capital. Petyr said he didn’t trust anyone and that included her. Sansa knew she couldn’t betray him, for she would hand next to him. For better or for worse, she was stuck with him and his secrets. How Petyr expected to keep Myranda in the dark was a mystery, or the woman was his partner in crime.

A few men had come to see him since they came to Kings Landing, but Brune turned them away. The marquess was far too ill to receive any visitors. In fact, Petyr had barely spoken a word in his delirium. Most of the time, Sansa tried to keep him comfortable until one of the maids would take over and let her rest.

Suddenly, his head leaned into her hand, and Sansa stopped her ministrations.

“Have you picked out my coffin yet, sweetling?” his voice rasped in the dim room.

Sansa smiled. Even in illness, Petyr still managed to keep sarcasm alive and well.

“No. Too expensive,” she answered wiping the damp cloth down Petyr’s neck. “I told Brune to put your body in a burlap sack and throw you in the dirt. I’ll need all the money I can steal from you.”

Petyr laughed heartily at that.

“Sweetling, when I die, I’ll make sure you are well taken care of,” he smirked.

“Oh? Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I would have killed you ages ago,” Sansa replied with mock seriousness.

“You did a poor job,” he chuckled. “Next time, use a stronger poison in your tea.”

“What? I would never… I did not do this to you,” she sat appalled at his words.

Petyr took her hand and kissed it lightly.

“I’m teasing, my dear,” he muttered. “When you kill me, you won’t need a poison. A stab to the heart will do.”

Sansa pulled her hand away. What did Petyr mean by that?

“Here, help me up,” he asked weakly.

Sansa pulled him up to sit as Petyr stretched, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I need to get out of this room…” he groaned.

“But the doctor said…”

“I don’t care what the bloody doctor said. I need to get out of this room before I go mad,” Petyr retorted testily pulling the covers off him and placing his feet on the rug. His nightclothes were rumpled and sweaty as they clung to his skin.

“My lord…”

“Petyr, _please_ …” he sighed.

“Petyr, what if you get sick again? The doctor said it could have been fever, yes, but that he thought maybe you ate something foul or… well, that… someone might have…”

“Poisoned me?” he smirked at her shocked expression. “Don’t worry, my dear. Somehow I doubt it was meant for me. I’ll never be desperate enough to drink sherry again, that I do know. That’s what I get for saving my thirty year old brandy upon returning home.”

Petyr never once drank sherry in that Sansa could recall. The wine was sour in the decanter, she remembered from that night she discovered Myranda and Petyr’s tryst in the music room. He and Sansa both drank a burgundy at dinner before leaving Harrenhal. They ate the same food. Only Sansa was so upset she retired early instead of going to the library with him as they had done so often. She didn’t drink any sherry that night.

“You’re so sure, are you?” Sansa asked skepticism.

“Love, when you’re in the business of politics, trade and lies,” he huffed as he stood up, “one would be wise to expect such things.”

“A great many people want to kill you, is that it?” Sansa japed, helping Petyr when he wobbled a bit.

“Funny enough, no,” he smiled, holding Sansa’s arm as he walked to the pitcher and basin by the window. “A great many people are not that smart.”

“And you are?” she asked, pouring cold water into the basin for him.

Petyr splashed this face and neck a few times before Sansa handed him a towel. He stood up and dried himself as the water dripped from his scruffy face. He chuckled, tossing the cloth over his shoulder.

“Yes,” he answered with a smile. “You don’t get where I am without _this_.” Petyr pointed to his forehead. “Know your enemies as well as you know yourself and never underestimate them.”

“And who are your enemies?” she asked slyly wondering if he would actually answer her.

Petyr closed the distance and grinned.

“ _Everyone_.”

Everyone? If Sansa was his enemy, then why did he save her weeks ago, keeping her with him?

“What does that make me?” she wondered, not realizing she said it aloud.

Petyr moved closer, placing his hands on her waist and studied her.

“An excellent question, sweetling,” he whispered.

Petyr was so close that she could feel his breath on her face. He was playing with her, Sansa thought. They were deep in the lion’s den and Petyr, in his teasing fashion, was still asking if he could trust her.

“Would an enemy nurse you back to health and watch over you for days on end? Surely, an enemy would have just let you die that night at the inn,” Sansa muttered back.

“The best foes gain your trust and friendship before slitting your throat. They help you, give you what you ask for… they seduce and even pretend to love you,” Petyr breathed as his lips were so dangerously close.

Sansa’s breathing was constricted from her corset making her chest heave. The air in the room was thick and heavy as she had not been this close to Petyr in such a way since that night under the house. The memory of his lips made Sansa’s tingle in anticipation. She held her breath and waited to see what he would do. Suddenly, Sansa remembered his lies and that he belonged to Myranda.

“Are you _my_ enemy?” she tested him as he stared at her lips.

“My clever girl,” Petyr smiled and pulled back. “That’s how you must think at all times in this city. No one here is a friend to us. Oh, they can be great actors, playing the part of sincerity, but never believe them. Not for a single moment. Never give them any information that you aren’t willing to have passed through the entire ton, whether it be true or not. Play the game better than them and never let them get the best of you even if it appears that way. They want you to be weak, to break you, belittle you. Sometimes the best way to play the game is to let them have their way. Let them mock you and find you inferior. When you are not a threat, they will never suspect you of a thing, and that is always an advantage. Remember, at all times, you are smarter and have the control. Whatever they say or do, no matter how much it hurts, make it work in your favor. Do you understand?”

 _Us_. It was strange that Petyr made a reference to them against the rest of the ton. Why was he telling her this? Sansa had no illusions that Kings Landing society would be any kinder than the Vale.

“What of your future wife?” Sansa asked before she could stop herself.

Petyr stepped back and sighed.

“Myranda is none of your concern,” he ended with a tone of finality. Discussing his betrothed was clearly off the table. Petyr sat down, putting his hand to his forehead.

“Well, you are my concern at the moment,” Sansa changed the subject quickly, wishing to never speak about Lady Myranda. “Don’t pretend you’re well yet because you’re not. I’ll draw you a bath and have the maids change the linens and open the windows to let some fresh air in. I don’t want to be nursemaid to you longer than necessary.”

Petyr chuckled at her candor, as Sansa wanted to smack him at the same time. Friend or foe, Sansa didn’t have a choice with Petyr. She might as well make herself useful and curry what favor she could before he married. If Petyr wanted her to play the game, then Sansa would do just that. She wasn’t going to get a better offer anywhere else.

Just as he told her at Harrenhal, Petyr had his townhouse fitting with similar plumbing. It took a couple of minutes, but finally, the water was hot enough as it pumped in and filled the tub. Petyr walked in, and Sansa avoided looking at him all together.

“Use the lemon soap, it cleanses better. I’ll make you a mint tea to settle your stomach. I told you to eat light this morning yet you refuse to listen to me,” Sansa blathered on wanting out of this room. “For heaven’s sake, don’t slip and break your neck. It’s bad enough having to deal with your temperament now, let alone you as an invalid.”

Petyr picked up the soap, unwrapping it and inhaled deeply.

“Ah, now I know what this scent reminds me of… _you_ ,” he grinned sinfully. “I’ve been trying to place it for some time. So, as I’m washing, I’ll know that this is what you used in my tub the day of the market.”

Sansa turned scarlet. This cad! The idea of him thinking of her like that made her blood boil.

“Well, the next time I purchase soap, I’ll be sure to find one made of lavender,” she said calmly. “That is Lady Myranda’s favorite scent, my lord.”

With that, she turned and left the bath, closing the door tight. Damn if Petyr didn’t infuriated her sometimes, Sansa fumed while opening one of the windows. He was getting married, why did he keep flirting like that with her? She didn’t want to know what he did in the bath.

Sansa went down to the kitchen to make tea and tried to ignore what just happened, sending the maids to change his bed. Married or not, men were still terrible. As their wives bore their children, husbands cheated on them and took mistresses. Some didn’t even bother hiding it. They flaunted their mistresses all over town, taking them to dine and the theatre, buying them all sorts of luxuries. These women probably didn’t have it too awful, that is until their patron got bored with them and moved on.

The bell rang and Sansa knew it must be another business caller for Lord Petyr. Brooks was given instructions to tell anyone wishing to see his lordship, that he wasn’t taking callers at the moment. The shrill voice that echoed from the foyer made Sansa close her eyes. She directed the maid to take Petyr’s tea to his bedroom and walked towards the foyer.

“I’m not just anyone, I am his fiancée,” Lady Myranda bellowed at Brooks.

“My lady, please. His lordship is ill and doesn’t wish to be disturbed,” the butler tried to explain, but Myranda was having none of it.

“Ill? My darling is ill? Take me to him,” she demanded.

“Lady Myranda. Lord Petyr would not wish to pass his sickness on to you,” Sansa said, walking towards them. “The doctor expressly said that he is not to leave his room. Perhaps in a day or two. I expect the doctor tomorrow morning, and I’ll ask if his lordship may receive callers.”

Myranda’s face was filled with fury, and Sansa tried not to smile.

“You,” she hissed. “He brought _you_ to Kings Landing?”

“Astute as always, Myranda,” Sansa replied with relaxed ease. Somewhere deep in her gut, Sansa enjoyed seeing Myranda riddled with anger – perhaps a tinge of jealousy? Sansa waved off Brooks, telling him she would handle it.

Myranda crossed the foyer and stood directly in front of Sansa by the staircase.

“You little whore,” she sneered. “How did you persuade him to bring you here? You being his ward is complete rubbish. You’re his mistress, aren’t you?”

“Believe what you like, but I’m only his ward and nothing more,” Sansa bristled. “I think his reputation should have you worried about other women in the city. Not me.”

Myranda circled her slowly, but Sansa refused to let this woman intimidate her.

“Just like your mother and aunt,” she whispered nastily. “Tully whores. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Really, Myranda? Calling _me_ a whore, are you?” Sansa smirked. “I’m the one that is still a virgin.”

“Oh, my dear, you don’t have to be fucked by a man to be a whore,” the brunette sniggered.

“Such lovely language for a lady, I must say,” Sansa smiled sweetly.

“Ahhh,” Myranda laughed. “Say what you will, but you’ll never be a lady, so you can drop the airs, Sansa.”

“Coming from a gold-digging _lady_ such as yourself? I’ll take that as a compliment,” she retorted holding her ground.

“You’re such a naïve and stupid girl, Sansa,” Myranda laughed quietly. “Or is that the game you are playing? The delicate, virginal flower? Keeping him interested just enough to give you a roof over your head and pretty gowns? How does that not make you a whore?”

Sansa scowled, “I will not and have not lain with him.”

Myranda smiled, “The moment you do, he’ll be rid of you. You do know that, right? What? Do you think he’ll fall madly in love and marry you? Like all men, they just want to taste a virgin, and then the thrill is over.”

Sansa’s façade was slowly cracking. She didn’t want to marry Petyr. He was more trouble than he was worth.

“I’m not the one marrying him for his wealth and titles,” Sansa japed as they both knew it was the truth.

“And you were marrying Joffrey for love?” Myranda shot back.

Sansa stood astounded, “That was arranged. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Ah, but I do. I chose Petyr when other women dismissed him so eagerly because of his heritage,” Myranda spoke with a tenderness that suddenly threw Sansa off. “I don’t deny that his wealth is appealing, but you automatically think I don’t care for him. Would you have taken him if he asked for your hand before your family became traitors?”

Sansa was speechless. She knew damn well she never would have been allowed to meet with a man like Petyr, let alone her father entertaining any proposal from him.

“Just as I thought,” Myranda seethed. “A little hypocrite even now when you’ll never be received in any household or hold a respectable position.” The brunette paced for a few moments. All at once, her tone changed. “I have made mistakes, but now I have the chance to marry a man that will take me. You think we don’t know what we are? I know what Petyr is and vice versa. We’re alike he and I and we understand each other. I can’t expect you to fathom such a thing. I can’t expect you to believe that I actually care for him and want to marry him. I could give him children and...”

“I don’t want him, Myranda,” Sansa argued. “He doesn’t want me.”

“Of course he does, Sansa,” Myranda breathed in frustration. “You’re beautiful, and he’s a man. Why do you think I’ve been so cruel to you? I’m madly jealous.”

The two women were silent as they stared at each other. Sansa didn’t know what to do or say now.

“Sansa,” Myranda sniffed turning away, “I could handle him taking a mistress, as most men do –  just not you. He fancies you, I can see it. I saw the way he looked at you at the Eyrie ball and then to find that you’re living at Harrenhal…”

“He doesn’t,” she pleaded. “How many times must I tell you.”

“You can’t make him happy,” Myranda continued. “He will be shunned after how hard he’s worked all this time.”

“Somehow, I don’t think he really cares about what the ton thinks of him,” Sansa muttered.

“All men say that, but it’s not the truth. They care,” Myranda sniveled. “Why do you think Father hasn’t been able to marry me until now? No gentleman in the Vale wanted anything to do with me. My reputation was in the gutter.”

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Sansa sighed. “My reputation is already in the gutter.” She looked at Myranda’s unshed tears in her eyes and couldn’t help herself. “And yet, you have a chance to reclaim yours.”

It was Sansa’s turn to pace. What was she doing? She didn’t really care for him, did she? Petyr was arrogant, sarcastic, secretive, and a royal pain in the arse, no matter how lovely his kisses were. Sansa knew nothing about this man. God, she had only known him for a short time. Myranda was right, Sansa couldn’t marry him if she wanted to. She would be social pariah for him. Why would a man want her as a wife anyway? No gentleman in his right mind would want to marry a traitor.

“Myranda, I swear to you,” Sansa began, slowly feeling a knot in her stomach. “I do not want him. I don’t wish to marry him. I have no feelings for him. Petyr is yours completely. He hasn’t touched me, nor would I ever allow him to. If you do… love him, then I’m the last person to stand in your way.”

The brunette smiled yet it wasn’t the type that generally made Sansa want to flee. Tears streamed down the girl’s face as she hugged Sansa with all her might.

“I’m so sorry for being beastly,” Myranda cried softly. “I was so terribly jealous. I thought you were going to take him away from me. You’re so beautiful, and men always gravitate towards you. I mean, I wanted Petyr for his money at first, but I think I’ve grown to love him. He doesn’t mind my past, and I could help him with my family name. I want Petyr to succeed… I wouldn’t mind gloating a bit to those gossiping old hags about how rich and happy we are.”

Myranda pulled away and wiped her eyes, giving Sansa a peck on the cheek.

“Oh, I never should have been so nasty to you. We’ll be like sisters, you’ll see. Maybe in time, the king will forgive and forget, and we’ll find you a suitable husband too.”

Sansa smiled, but her stomach was in her throat and a deep ache resonated in her chest.

“Look at me, I’m a mess. Petyr can’t see me like this,” Myranda sniffed, running to a large oval mirror on the opposite wall.

“You look lovely,” Sansa winced. She needed to get away from Myranda. Sansa wanted the quiet of her room and Lady to hold. The horrible pain she felt was only growing stronger.

The maids came downstairs and told Sansa that Petyr had finished his bath.  He was advised Myranda was here to see him and to send her up to his private parlor.

“Myranda, I think you should see him,” Sansa said softly. “He’s waiting for you upstairs.”

“How do I look? Will he think I’ve been crying?” the girl asked.

Sansa pinched her cheeks a little to give them a touch of rosy color.

“There,” she smiled. “Perfection.”

Sansa watched the brunette practically bound up the stairs to where her lover and future husband awaited. She could barely catch her breath as tears threatened to pool in her eyes. Sansa blinked them back, but the heartache was real. There was no denying it. She had lied to Myranda and to herself. She liked Petyr. Sansa couldn’t understand why. He made her so angry most of the time that Sansa should hate him.

Was it because he really belonged to Myranda? Was Sansa only jealous because she knew that she would never find someone to want her for herself? Maybe Myranda and Petyr were a perfect match. No woman of title wanted him as Myranda suffered the same dilemma. Myranda wanted wealth and Petyr had it in spades. He needed a respectable name, and Myranda could give that to him. Petyr was was just as much a social climber as she. What could Sansa ever give him other than her body? Nothing. She had nothing to offer any gentleman.

The truth hurt more than Sansa could bear. She felt a bit of a hypocrite for belittling Myranda. Would Sansa have said yes if Petyr asked for her hand instead?

Sansa wiped a stray tear away. Petyr kept telling her she was compassionate and kind, well now was her chance to prove it. She gathered Lady from the garden and headed up the stairs. Glancing towards Petyr’s rooms, the doors were closed. Sansa didn’t want to know what was going on inside.

Walking past the landing overlooking the foyer, Sansa would never know that Petyr heard every word the two women had said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of angst going on in this chapter. There is a bit of that in the next few chapters but Petyr's game comes into play, as well as some characters and their motives. There's still fluff and some smut before thing get crazy and we we see a darker side to Petyr. Lots of Littlefinger in the next chapters. Of course, not everything is as it seems.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... don't kill me on this one. *runs and hides*

 

 

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Sansa’s voice echoed in Petyr’s head as Myranda fussed over him in the parlor next to his bedroom.

 

_I do not want him._

_I don’t wish to marry him._

_I have no feelings for him._

 

Petyr observed the two ladies discussing him in the foyer. Sansa's words hurt, yet he couldn’t hold it against her. Petyr gave Sansa no real reason to care for him. She couldn't know how he felt considering the situation. If everything went to plan, she would be upset, there was no doubt about that. However, he vowed he would make it up to her in any way he could. He would make Sansa happy.

Listening to the exchange, Petyr almost expected Sansa to glance up and see him, curious what her reaction would be. Myranda was playing her part better than he expected. Petyr was almost shocked when she whimpered and begged pity as a woman looking for redemption.

 _Almost_.

Sansa may be naïve, but Petyr wasn’t. Lady Myranda never apologized a day in her life, he was willing to bet. She was protecting her assets the best way she knew how. Sansa was a threat, and Myranda knew it. Bringing her here to Kings Landing only changed Myranda’s game. If she could not scare Sansa away or insult the girl, she would play on her tender heart instead.

Perhaps Sansa saw through Myranda just as Petyr did, but he couldn’t be sure. Either Sansa was becoming a better actress or Myranda’s arrow of hollow pleas finally found a target. Playing up the fallen woman was right up Sansa’s alley, and the Royce girl knew and exploited it. Now, it was just a question of whether Sansa actually believed it. If she did, it went two-fold. It only confirmed what Petyr loved about Sansa, her compassion and kindness, and that it would make his job more manageable.

When Lady Myranda knocked on his door and entered, the act from downstairs had dissolved completely. She shut the door and glared at him sitting in his dressing-gown by the fireplace. It had been days since Petyr had a drink, and he already downed a glass of brandy before his future wife entered.

“Is it your intent to insult me?” she breathed in anger. Petyr took a sip and let the alcohol burn down his throat.

“I don’t know what you mean, my love,” Petyr smiled gesturing to the chair across from him. “I’m touched by your concern for my well-being. I rather expected you before now. Did the news take so long to reach you or were the parties exerting?”

“Don’t play with me, I know she isn’t your ward,” Myranda insisted. “If she’s your mistress, fine, but send her away. I will not have her here, do you hear me? I will not have it.”

“Darling, what does it matter? I have many mistresses in this city alone. In fact, I’m quite positive you have socialized with most of them,” Petyr sighed. “Stop with this act. We’re both guilty of disrepute.”

“Will this end when we’re married or should I expect that you’ll be spending most of your time gambling and whoring?” she asked with mock politeness.

“Tell me, did you truly presume anything less? You knew what I was. How many men change for their wives?” he japed lightly. “If you believed I would suddenly turn into a gentleman escorting you to garden parties, then you’re marrying the wrong man, my dear.”

“I expect you to respect me,” Myranda barked.

Petyr finished off his drink and gazed at her. Myranda was an attractive woman. Had he not found Sansa, Petyr thought he wouldn’t have had any trouble fucking her at least.

“And where’s your respect for me when you’re giving it out all over town?” he smiled not being able to help gazing at her ample bosom threatening to spill out of her dark blue dress. The girl had the audacity to looked shocked making Petyr laugh. “Ah, you unaware I knew, were you?”

“It’s not what you think,” she floundered a bit.

“Oh, it’s not what I think but _know_ , my dear,” Petyr retorted as he poured himself another drink. God, he wanted to get very drunk right now. “Don’t worry, I don’t hold it against you. You have your vices, and I have mine.”

Myranda straightened her posture a little even though Petyr could see he made a dent in her armor.

“So, is she to live with us and we have our own lovers, is that it?” Myranda chided him.

“That is up to you. We both know we’re not in love with each other. Ours is a marriage of convenience. We’re very similar creatures, though. Insulting you would be insulting myself, wouldn’t you say?” Petyr grinned and took another large sip.

“Why her? If you must have your mistresses, then do so,” the girl eyed him. “I know Sansa, she is still a virgin, undoubtedly. If you haven’t fucked her, then why keep her? Is this a sick game of yours until she finally breaks? Virgins are boring, Petyr, you should know that. All they do is lie there. But if you must have her, then have her and be done with it. I don’t care how many other women you keep, just not her.”

“My, my, I never thought you to be the jealous type,” Petyr chuckled.

“Jealous?” she grinned wickedly. “I am not jealous of a traitorous, little virgin. I will not have a traitor in my home and raising our children. You’re marrying me for my name. I’ll not have it besmirched because you want to fuck her.”

Myranda had no idea how right she was. Petyr wanted nothing more than to take his little witch to bed and fuck her until she was screaming his name. She quivered under his touch once, and in time, he could make her want him again… but not as his mistress. Sansa would be his wife for Petyr would have no other.

“In fact, I think you have underestimated what you will get with me,” Myranda licked her lips and doubled down on her wager she made on this man. She was not going to lose him so quickly.

Myranda unlaced her bodice a bit, letting her breasts fill his view. The woman moved towards him, and Petyr couldn’t help the hint of lust building in his groin. It had been a long time since he had a woman, and most especially after his sweetling refused him days ago. He was almost drunk enough to consider Myranda’s offer.

“You wouldn’t even need a mistress,” she purred, moving between his legs. “A virgin hasn’t a clue how to please a man – know what he needs and what he truly wants in a woman.”

Myranda leaned over him and tried to kiss him as her hand slipped inside his robe.

“I’m still rather ill and not up for this little game, pet,” he tried not to groan as her hand worked him.

“Hmmm, I beg to differ, my husband,” she grinned and bit his lower lip. “I think you’re more than up for it. Shall we find out?”

Petyr clenched his jaw, fighting the groan that desperately wanted to come out. Her soft hand was skilled as it gripped him up and down. Once her hot, wet mouth engulfed him, Petyr couldn’t stop it as he threaded his fingers in her hair and pushed her head further down. God, she was good and was living up to the lewd talk he heard from men at the gambling hells. A few of them actually patted Petyr on the back when news of their engagement was known. Besides the fact that she was apt to fuck any and every man, at least she was good in bed, they told him.

Petyr was very close when suddenly she stopped and leaned up to his face.

“Sansa doesn’t want you, but I do,” Myranda breathed, lifting her skirts. “Lady Beatrice said you were quite the talented lover…”

He felt her silk stockings as her hands guided his up her thighs. They both knew he was aroused and refusing Myranda now would cause serious suspicions in regards to Sansa. It wouldn’t be anything different than the women he had bedded before. Petyr felt nothing then as he felt nothing now for the brunette that was teasing his hardness with those, wet folds.

“I want you inside me,” Myranda moaned in his ear sinking down on him. “You don’t want some little, frightened girl. You need a woman to fuck you.”

Myranda rotated her hips, and his need to come was too strong. Peytr pushed her off him pulling her over to the lounge chair. Yanking up her skirts, he spread her legs and thrust deep into that waiting heat. It wasn’t Myranda he was fucking. Petyr closed his eyes imagining his beautiful redhead as he thrusted madly. Sansa’s moans filled his ears, and the scent of lemons had him dizzy.

“You’re mine,” he growled, feeling his gut clench.

“Oh yes, I’m yours. Make me come, I need to come,” Myranda cried out, and Petyr dug his fingers into her curls where they were joined, making her throb around him. It wasn’t Sansa’s voice that begged him, it wasn’t red hair spread out on the cushion. Quickly, he pulled out spilling onto her skirts but didn’t forget to send the brunette over the edge with his fingers.

“Oh dear God,” she sighed, shaking under him and Petyr felt sick. He didn’t know if it was the brandy, the lingering illness, or that he just fucked this vapid girl. Petyr’s head spun, and he needed Myranda to leave immediately.

“Are you alright?” she asked, lifting his head. “No, you’re well at all, are you?”

No, he wasn’t, Petyr cursed himself. He never should have said to bring her upstairs. He knew he needed to keep her under control and professing his love would have been idiotic. Myranda wasn’t stupid, she would have seen right through him. She knew what she was marrying. Pretending otherwise, Petyr would have fallen flat. Myranda couldn’t know he had feelings for Sansa or any other motive towards her other than the obvious.

Myranda helped him onto the lounge as he tucked himself back in his pants and tied the dressing gown around his waist once more.

“I overexerted you, didn’t I?” she muttered, pouring herself a drink. “Well, I say that we’ll have to do that more often when you’re feeling more yourself.”

Petyr watched Myranda right her bodice as well as trying to fix her hair and smiled to himself. If he had not already fallen for his little witch, Myranda might not have been a terrible match. She was pretty, and at least he could have sired a few children from her willingly. She loved fucking, that was clear enough, but Petyr wondered how many men had her already. However, he certainly couldn’t trust her. He would have insisted she live in the capital. Myranda loved the city life and all the social aspects of becoming a marchioness. Myranda would probably have spent his money faster than he could make it.

Perhaps the man he was a couple years ago would have been happy with it or keeping his mistresses, but now he just couldn’t see being married to her at all or continue on with that bachelor life. Petyr hadn’t lied when he told Myranda he was not the kind of man to escort his wife to garden parties and host lavish dinners every other night. He loathed the ton and wanted to associate with society as little as possible.

In the long term, there was nothing to be gained after his plans came to fruition. Petyr did not want a silly wife. He wanted some semblance of love and contentment in his later years. It had been too long since he loved anyone and Petyr practically forgot what it felt like.

When he took Sansa from Riverrun, something stirred in him. Perhaps it was only a masculine need to protect and care for a girl so delicate and fragile. She reminded him intensely of Cat, but the feeling was different. Petyr wasn’t that naïve schoolboy, in love for the first time. The years had been harsh, making him a hard man. He promised he would never fall to weakness again.

Oh, but how Petyr wanted to feel that emotion he thought was long dead. Petyr wanted to make Sansa smile, spoil her with anything she wanted just to see that glow in her eyes. He wanted to wake to that sweet face every morning and make love to her every night. When all was said and done, when he no longer had to play this game, Petyr could see himself growing old with her. He could give her children and a beautiful life with love and respect.

However, there was no love without trust either, Petyr thought as he watched Myranda with her false concern about him. He didn’t trust this girl as far as he could throw her. He couldn’t see a mother in her, not one he’d want raising his children. She was cold and full of selfish pretense.

When Sansa cared for Petyr, there was a genuine tenderness. If she hated him, it didn’t matter as that born kindness wouldn’t allow her to leave him to die. Sansa had to care even if just a little. Her generosity towards the smallfolk at the market and that she was willing to protect a dying wolf spoke volumes. Sansa was a kind soul, and Petyr was unworthy of her. After all the horror she had been put through, this woman was still loving and compassionate.

Sadly, he wondered how far she would have to be pushed before it broke her. Petyr did not want Sansa to lose that quality he loved so dearly. In the end, she would hate him, but more importantly, she would be safe. At least he could give Cat one last gift.

The pieces were well placed on his chessboard and soon it would be time to checkmate his opponents. In one move, that would erase all the players, would Sansa think him a monster? Petyr was risking so much yet in the end, it would be a clean slate for those that remained to pick up the pieces of a new life. He had traveled to countries where democracy was thriving and others in open revolt against the old aristocracy.

Petyr did not deny that he would enjoy turning the tables on the elite. Their rule was soon at an end. In this new world, men like him would be able to play on level ground. He could see it everywhere he visited. The people here were ripe for it even if they did not know it. They were tired of living under the boot of tyranny. Petyr wanted to see those smug faces fall.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” Myranda huffed in annoyance.

He had almost forgotten she was still here. Petyr laid his head back and looked at her. Myranda hated Sansa, that was evident. Perhaps he could use that. She would most likely object to him being seen with her around town. He needed this girl to keep a cool head. Myranda was a vicious little thing, but she also wanted status and the wealth he offered. She was not likely to break the engagement. Petyr knew he couldn’t and still stay within acceptable standing within the court. Being ostracized now, when his plans were so carefully laid for years,  would ruin everything.

All of society knew Petyr was social climbing libertine that had already broken so many rules of decorum. Fucking other men’s wives and keeping mistresses was one thing, publicly parading a blood traitor as if she were equal to them was another.

Petyr needed Myranda to let him do it. Something she would find entertaining due to her hatred and jealousy of Sansa. He couldn’t openly throw Myranda over for her and he couldn’t be seen as wanting to marry Sansa. Choosing her over a lady, even as promiscuous as Myranda was still unthinkable and suspicious considering his lightning-fast rise in court. Lady Myranda, no matter her whorish reputation, was still one of them. Sansa was not. No, it had to be forced on him. A punishment, per se for overstepping his bounds.

“Forgive me, pet. My mind is completely addled with lust and brandy,” he smiled. “I daresay, you have become the cure to what ails me. What a pair we could make.”

Myranda sauntered over and sat next to him with a wicked gleam in her eye. He leaned up and caressed her flushed cheeks with a grin to match.

“What fool would want any other woman than you?” he lied smoothly.

“Don’t lie to me, we don’t love each other,” she played coolly.

Petyr smirked, “Did I say love? Oh, no, darling. Love is overrated and for silly children. We both don’t believe in such things. We are very much alike, you and I. We like fucking, gold and beautiful, expensive things. Who needs love?”

He ran his hands up her waist, bringing her closer to him. Petyr nipped at her lips before kissing her deeply.

“Get rid of her,” she murmured against his mouth.

“Oh, I will. I haven’t had my fun, yet,” Petyr chuckled, kissing down her neck. “You play your little games, let me have mine.”

“What game?” she moaned when he found a pulse point.

“Don’t play coy,” he teased. “You like to play with those modest gentlemen just as much as I enjoy turning those proper ladies into depraved harlots. Such debauchery is addicting. You’re the only lady of quality that knows what her cunt is for and isn’t ashamed in taking her pleasure. I fully intend to make you scream and writhe on our wedding night that you will never want another cock inside you.”

“You’re seducing her?” she laughed bitterly but gasped when he lightly bit her neck.

“I’m seducing you, you’re seducing me, but we’re to be married, so it’s not quite the same game,” Petyr japed, his hand finding its way under her skirts. “I thought, why not one more little adventure before the wedding? I managed to get both the duchess and Lord Tully to disown her. I wanted to see how long it would take me to break her. Do you think she would spread her legs for a night at the opera before dumping her at the nearest whorehouse?”

Petyr pressed his fingers between the brunette’s thighs, making her gasp.

“You are positively cruel,” she groaned. “Well, her mother was a trollop, so it’s no surprise…”

“Yes,” he slurred, pumping his hand harder. Myranda definitely liked to be fucked. How much would she believe right now? “I never did like any Tully and then add in the arrogance of the Starks... it was great fun watching them all tumble down from their pedestal. There’s no sport in raping women, I like to play with them. However, Sansa is proving to be a little more difficult than I thought. Apparently, new dresses didn’t do the trick. Obviously, a traitorous virgin has a higher price on her cunt. I don’t see why. It’s not as though she’ll ever marry. What should I do, my pet? Give your husband some advice?”

“She won’t give it to you, she’s too high and mighty. You’d think she would have learned her place after she was spared from execution. I would bet anything she still thinks some knight is going to come and save her,” Myranda laughed viciously.

“Do I detect a wager?” Petyr chuckled lowly and worked her dripping quim harder.

“You’d have to make her fall in love with you, and you’ll never do it,” she moaned. “Oh god, that feels so good.”

“Ah, you doubt my skills, do you?” he teased and slowed his hand, making her whimper in frustration. “I bet I can do it by His Majesty’s Grand Ball, what say you?”

“I don’t care, just make me come again, damn you,” she begged.

“I love hearing you beg for me to finish you off,” Petyr japed not letting her have it.

“What do I get if you lose?” Myranda growled.

“I’ll send her to some convent or remote place, whatever pleases my future bride,” he smiled, picking up the pace again. “And if I win?”

She was bucking against his hand now, and Petyr knew she wasn’t going to last much longer.

“What do you want?” she moaned harder.

“I want you do give up that young footman of yours, I’ll not have my wife fucking the servants,” he grinned madly at her shocked face. “I don’t want other men touching what is mine,” Petyr lied. The devious smile on Myranda’s face was everything. She believed he wanted her, thinking it gave her power over him. “I will give you everything you desire. Gowns, jewels, riches… whatever pleases you. But you must be mine alone.”

“You’re a cruel man, I knew you to be a scoundrel, but this is positively horrible to do to her,” Myranda gasped as her eyes rolled back. “I love it because either way, I win.”

“Really?”

She was coming hard and clenched her thighs, trapping his hand as he brought her down.

“If she falls in love, then she’ll be devastated when you marry me. So you see, I win,” Myranda laughed. “Darling, you could not have given me a better wedding present. I don’t even care if you fuck her. How do you win so often at gambling when you make terrible wagers like this?”

“Maybe I just like to play the game, darling,” Petyr teased. “How often does a man’s bride agree to him seducing another woman for pure entertainment?”

He pushed her up and wiped his hand on his dressing gown. He’d have it washed immediately and take a bath. Petyr didn’t want to smell like sex or her. He detested the scent of lavender, and just as Sansa had told him, it was clearly Myranda’s favorite.

“Now, go be a good girl for a week,” Petyr winked. “One of us needs to maintain a virtuous reputation for now. Afterward, everyone will believe you’ve made me into a decent man. I promise I’ll play the role of the doting and respectable husband in public and we can be whatever we want in private. What wonderful gossip that would be?”

“Maybe I made the right decision to marry you after all,” she said playfully and kissed him before leaving and shutting the door behind her.

This was going to be more straightforward than he hoped, Petyr chuckled. Just as he thought, no one was going to believe he honestly took on Sansa as his ward. Myranda now would let him parade her rival around town, believing his maliciousness.

Lord Royce and Lysa would be outraged, and the ton would gossip endlessly on how he was insulting his future wife by bringing a traitor into their circles. Myranda would insist on the marriage even if her father objected due to Petyr’s rakish behavior. Knowing Royce, he would sell his daughter to a pirate if he thought the price was right. They both knew he could not marry Myranda before, and Petyr was paying handsomely to take her off his hands.

Petyr was gambling quite a bit in this charade, but he knew he had made himself indispensable to King Joffrey. He had tripled revenues, making the boy very wealthy as well as others within the court. Petyr had made headway with the Riverlands and trade between the Vale and the north. The king couldn’t afford to strip him of title and power because he was fucking a young girl. Money had perceived power and was far more vital to them.

If it worked, they would see the new, favored lord as rising too high and getting a little arrogant, enough to flaunt someone like Sansa as his mistress. If Petyr were lucky, since he kept his intentions towards Lady Myranda quiet until the engagement was announced, they would consider his marriage to respectable, old family too presumptuous for a lowly man like him.

Joffrey granted him Harrenhal and the title of Marquess and Lord Paramount, but gaining more standing by marriage would hopefully be too much for this social climber in their eyes. Petyr could be named a duke, and the court would still patronize him, he laughed to himself.

Now, Petyr had to deal with Sansa. He hoped to shield her as much as possible. She would also object to him escorting her around town believing Myranda would be upset. Petyr would have to test the waters. It mattered not, he was going to enjoy every moment of strolls in the park, visiting the gallery, dining and taking her to the theatre. Petyr knew Sansa had never been, and with her love of music, he couldn’t wait to see her at her first opera.

Reading his letters this morning, Petyr knew the new ball gowns he had ordered before leaving Harrenhal, would arrive soon. Sansa would be a vision, and he was going to flaunt this beauty for all to see. The challenge would be keeping his hands off her until he could make her his wife. Petyr was so close to taking her to bed that night.

He wanted to do this right. He would not make a whore of her. She would be his wife when he made love to her for the first time. Sansa would be the mother of his children, and those lovely thoughts steeled his resolve. Yes, he was a selfish man. Sansa would be his, and that was the end of it.

Standing up,  Petyr gazed at his rumpled appearance in the gilded mirror. He needed to take another bath and wash off all of Lady Myranda.

 


	19. Chapter 19

 

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Almost a week had passed since the confrontation with Lady Myranda as Sansa took tea in the library with Lady.  It had only been a few weeks, but the wolf filled out and her coat sleek, with all the food she and Petyr spoiled her with. The animal had made Sansa, unequivocally her new mother… and Petyr, her adopted father of sorts. Sansa was a bit jealous of the attention Lady gave him sometimes. She would paw at his bedroom door, begging to be let in. When they were together after dinner, just as they tended to do at Harrenhal, Lady would lay at his feet instead of Sansa’s.

Petyr appeared healthier every day, even to taking visitors in his study. It was always business, but at least Sansa no longer had to refuse people who came calling. Strangely, Myranda only came back yesterday to see him, but it was brief, unlike the last time. Sansa did not want to know what went on inside his room that day. The maid had joked that Lady Royce looked somewhat rumpled upon leaving, not realizing how that news distressed her new mistress.

How exactly did Sansa feel about it? She didn’t trust Myranda, but her revelation did give her pause. Sansa loathed the way she was unfairly judged and treated by society, and yet now she was doing the same to Myranda. Perhaps, the brunette was just taking the opportunity to finally find a husband that wanted her. That wasn’t such a bad thing. Myranda was right in a way, Petyr would be one of the few that wouldn't judge her past, being an outsider himself. Maybe, it was for the best, the two of them, but it didn’t make Sansa feel any better.

There were quiet times between herself and Petyr at Harrenhal, with little moments when Sansa actually enjoyed his company. In those moments, he was different with her, gentle and sweet. Sansa did not realize she liked that side to him until Myranda and her father arrived that day.

_He had no other companionship than you, that’s all it was. He has his bride now, and you’re exactly where you expected to be._

Sansa sipped her tea, petting Lady’s head as she slept on her lap. Her white body stretched out on the sofa. Oddly, the servants here did not question once about the animal the marquess brought with this new young lady. The household was rather welcoming, but kept to themselves, That barrier between servant and master, left Sansa lonesome once again.

A few large packages arrived from a boutique, and Sansa wondered what Petyr had purchased for Myranda. They must be for her since he never mentioned it at all. Sansa’s chastised herself. Petyr bought her many beautiful things, she certainly did not need anything else. It was funny how she did not want him to buy her anything, in the beginning, now Sansa was feeling a twinge of covetousness that he was probably buying lovely gifts for his bride to be.

When the marriage would take place, she did not know and dared not ask. It could very well be soon, and Sansa tried to figure out how they would interact in this house together. Myranda wept and told Sansa the reasons why she was so cruel, that same anger and jealousy for a rival. If she was to be believed, the brunette was not as mean as she perceived and perhaps it wouldn’t be too terrible. That is if Sansa was telling the girl the truth that day in the foyer.

 _I have no feelings for him_.

 _No_ , Sansa persuaded herself, setting down her cold tea, _You do not want him_.  _You were only craving companionship, considering you do not have any friends or family anymore._

Petyr still had a dark streak that frightened Sansa. He had a fiancée now, and what was in the past must stay in the past. Accept the new situation and try to make it bearable, Sansa’s mind implored. If all goes well, maybe Petyr will send her back to Harrenhal, and they can stay here. Sansa might only see them a couple times a year for Myranda will probably insist on living in Kings Landing.

Lady yawned and stretched languidly. She was bored, Sansa knew. The wolf couldn’t run outside like at Harrenhal, and Sansa couldn’t take her for walks. Petyr wouldn’t allow Sansa outside the house without him chaperoning her. Apparently, he wasn’t escorting her anywhere anytime soon. They were regulated to the garden and the house.

Even Sansa was beginning to feel the claustrophobia. Here she was in the capital, the place she was dying to travel to, and spent all her days indoors. Petyr was right, she couldn’t do a thing without him as an escort and where in the world would he take her? It wouldn’t do him or Myranda any good to have Sansa tag along on their outings.

Once again, Sansa found herself strolling about his house. Her days were spent reading, playing the piano, or gazing at his many paintings. There was nothing else to occupy her time here. Although Sansa had to admit, Petyr had an eye. Most of the works of art gave a little piece of him away if anyone was willing to really look.

From the Boucher in her former bedroom and others at Harrenhal, Sansa recognized artists such as the risqué painting by Fragonard in his own bedroom, to Géricault’s lovers and even Natoire’s depiction of Hades and Persephone.

Hades wanted the young girl thus kidnapping her taking her to the Underworld, making her his queen. This painting, however, was quite different as Sansa often came to stare at its beauty. Persephone was not weak and afraid. She was empowered as Queen of the Underworld and sat contentedly next to her husband, Hades, as his equal. Persephone was always depicted as this young, naïve girl, but she was indeed a powerful woman in her realm below.

Yes, Petyr was a romantic and tried very hard not to show it. Sansa truly believed he didn’t choose art purely to impress visitors to his home. He wanted pieces that spoke to him and in turn, revealed a tiny bit of who he was. Even the décor at Harrenhal hinted to places he traveled. Petyr liked color and variety, and he certainly had a passion for art and music – he wasn’t all business and money.

Yes, he liked the finer things in life, even by his own wardrobe. The man wore only the best – the most beautiful silks and wool. His waistcoats were embroidered with detail as he sported the best-tailored clothing a gentleman of royalty could wish for. The wardrobe he had made for Sansa was exquisite. Surely, he would need to fit his future wife with something better than what he gave his ward.

Perhaps Myranda knew him better than Sansa thought. Maybe she had already glimpsed the man behind the mask and grew to care for him. Strangely, all three of them were outsiders, and soon they would be thrown together, but for how long? No matter how hard Sansa tried not to think on it, that nagging little voice was always there. Sansa never became too comfortable in her surroundings with that thought lingering in her head. How long did she have with Lord Petyr Baelish?

Sansa let Lady out to the garden for a while and walked to Petyr’s study to ask him what he would prefer for dinner this evening. Save for the fire, the room was empty. Sansa stoked the dying embers and saw the decanter of brandy on his desk. Glancing at the door in deliberation, she poured herself a small glass and took a drink. The oaky, vanilla burned her throat as she strolled around the room. It was much stronger than the sherry and port she was used to.

Polished black walnut and emerald green made Petyr’s study a bit too dark and foreboding for her taste. It didn’t have that warmth as his study at Harrenhal. Sansa didn’t dare look through the papers on his desk as the door was wide open. Whatever he was working on, it clearly demanded his attention. Sansa sighed and looked at the clock on the mantel and wondered where he was. She could hear Lady barking in the garden at the squirrels in the trees and it was the only thing that made her smile today.

Leaning against his desk holding the amber liquid in the cut crystal glass, Sansa noticed a painting she had not seen before. Granted, she did not frequent Petyr’s study, as this was the first time ever being alone in this room. Compared to the other works displayed in his home, this painting felt quite out of place. Sansa knew the artist instantly, for her mother had two smaller pieces at Winterfell.

 _Caravaggio_. David was holding the severed head of Goliath in triumph over the giant. All of Petyr’s artwork coursed with meaning, and this was no different. Everywhere else in the house, reflected his romantic and sensual side and yet, there was something dark and gruesome right in front of his desk. Why would Petyr hang such a painting in his study? Sansa took another sip and studied the Baroque style of this hero’s story. Did Petyr see himself as David, the small man winning against such odds?

“A most convincing lie, isn’t it?” his deep voice sounded from the doorway, startling Sansa.

Regaining her composure, Sansa finished off the brandy placing the glass on his desk.

“A lie?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the painting.

“Yes,” Petyr said as he came to stand next to her, gazing at the work of art. “It is false, can’t you see?”

Sansa didn’t understand him and searched his face for some answer.

“Well, here, David is holding a sword. However, he bested Goliath with pebble and a sling,” she offered in explanation, trying to recall the story.

“True, but it is still a lie, sweetling,” Petyr smirked, glancing at the brandy decanter with a questioning.

“So, you’re saying the tale is delusive?” Sansa finally asked.

“All such faerie tales are perfidious, my dear. I would hope you do not believe in such ridiculous things,” Petyr countered.

“What is so wrong about David beating Goliath? Rather admirable, isn’t it? The smaller, weaker man beating the confident and strong with just a tiny stone?” she smiled, wondering why Petyr did not like the story and yet kept a painting of it where he would see it every day.

“Telling children myths such as this is wrong, sweetling. Did tales of romantic princes and castles prepare you for the Lannisters and Joffrey?” Petyr frowned, his eyes returning to the painting with disgust.

“Once there was a young boy that believed such tales. He believed that love would protect him, that he would triumph. He believed it so blindly that he fought for his lady love… unlike David, the boy did not win. Goliath beat him down, holding his head below water and leaving him for dead. The boy’s lady love did nothing as she was set to marry another out of family honor and duty.”

Sansa watched Petyr in fascination with a touch of fear. Such venom dripped from his words that made her curious as to the details behind the hatred emanating off him. Mrs. Cole said he loved her mother as a boy and remembered Uncle Edmure shouting how Petyr should have died back then. Petyr was supposedly younger than Edmure and her mother. He was likely younger than Sansa when her family was executed. Did Petyr actually ask and fight for her mother’s hand? He would have been the personification of David against impossible odds of society standards. Did her father hurt Petyr when his mother was betrothed him?

_Goliath beat me down…_

_Holding me down… and left me for dead…_

The image made her shudder. A grown man, her own father, beating and drowning a young boy. Sansa mustered a bit of courage and took a deep breath.

“Would the boy have fought for love if he knew he couldn’t succeed? Was she worth fighting for?”

Petyr raised his eyebrows in surprise to Sansa’s question and was silent for a time as he studied her harder than the painting before them.

“ _Yes_ ,” he breathed. “She was worth fighting for. It was a harsh lesson learned.”

“A lesson in defeat that you keep on your wall? I don’t understand,” Sansa muttered.

Petyr smiled thinly, “More as a reminder of the truth, sweetling. That life is not a song, a sonnet, or a faerie tale that children learn to their sorrow. Life is harsh and cruel. The strong feed on the weak. One thing I learnt that day… I’ll never win playing by their rules. I used to believe I was equal and just like them. Even now, with wealth and power – it matters not to them. I’m sure can empathize with that sentiment now. Indoctrinated as a child, what has it brought you but tears? Play the game, Sansa, _but not their game_. I pretend, and they believe, but I know what I am and what I want. When the time is right, my pebble will hit them like a ton of bricks.”

Sansa remembered the hot spring under the house as one word rang in her mind.

_Treason_

Petyr was playing some kind of game, but what? Clearly, something that could get him killed yet he was willing to take the risk. Her mother was worth fighting for when he was a boy. What was so crucial that Petyr must fight even now? He had wealth and power and could live peacefully, if he wished, but he seemed set on a revenge of sorts.

“Where is the lie? From what I see, David is still fighting Goliath,” Sansa hesitated, not meeting his eyes. “Perhaps the boy somewhere inside still believes in victory… even if it only a little bit.”

Petyr chuckled deeply, “Touché. However, the man is taking a different strategy. I’m not going to fight them. I’m going to fuck them.”

Sansa swallowed and didn’t know what to say. Petyr wasn’t going to elaborate it seemed, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what he was planning.

“It won’t bring her back,” she breathed.

“Even if it did, it wouldn’t matter in the slightest,” Petyr rumbled. “That boy is long gone. He died that day.” He looked at her with such sorrow. “Just as you did when Joffrey murdered your family.”

Sansa turned away, unable to hold his gaze.

“You and I are so very much alike, Sansa,” he whispered, taking her shoulders in his hands. “We were both dreamers and romantics until reality dealt us both a harsh blow. Now, we see the world as it truly is. We do not trust anyone or anything. I beg you to remember that while we’re here.”

“Does that include Lady Myranda?” she asked abruptly.

Petyr released his hold on her and stepped away. “Myranda, as I said once before, is not your concern,” he said steadily. “There are things she need not know mainly because I do not trust her father, Lord Royce.”

Did Myranda know of Petyr’s plans, whatever they were? Sansa believed that Myranda would have no reason to tell her. Everyone had their secrets.

“Rather difficult to begin a marriage without trust…” Sansa mumbled and realized she said it aloud.

Petyr stepped closer again and eyed her steadfast.

“Do you trust me?”

“I’m not your wife,” Sansa answered, backing away.

“And if you were, would you completely trust me?” he asked again moving forward until he had her backed against the wall.

“What? I – I… but I’m not,” she muttered.

“Would you trust me with your deepest secrets? I know you keep them, sweetling,” Petyr smiled, blocking her escape and pinning her to the wall. He knew she was keeping things from him? Oh God, that wasn't good, or he was overly perceptive. Could Sansa really trust him? “Do you believe men and their wives are completely honest with each other? Lord Royce is no friend of mine, but I needn’t hurt my future wife with that knowledge.”

 _Wife_. She was beginning to hate that word more and more. Sansa could see some truth in what Petyr said, but it still bothered her that Myranda was going to marry him. What on earth would they talk about? Sansa knew things that Myranda may or may not know. Was she expected to keep it from her?

“I’m trusting _you_ , whether you believe it or not, Sansa,” Petyr pressured. “I’m asking you to trust me a little. I think I’ve earned some of it.”

That was debatable, Sansa thought. Petyr had done enough in her eyes to mistrust him, regardless of his reasons. In the end, he did do other things in protecting her as well. Then again, she wouldn’t be in this mess had he left her with Uncle Edmure, to begin with. That didn’t matter anymore. What happened from this moment on would decide her future.

Petyr was hiding something and seemingly protecting Myranda from it. Did that mean he cared about her former friend? He was asking Sansa to trust him and frankly, she didn’t have much choice.

Sansa sighed and conceded to him, nodding her head.

“Fine, what do you want me to do?” she asked numbly.

Petyr tilted her chin up and smiled, “I would like to take you to the Royal Gallery tomorrow, for starters. It’s about time both of us get out of this house.”

Her face must have been shocked for Petyr started laughing.

“You wish to be seen with me? Myranda will not approve…”

“My dear, she and I have already discussed it. It’s done,” Petyr chuckled and moved back straightening his waistcoat.

“She will be joining us, of course,” Sansa stated.

“No, she doesn’t care for the gallery as I do. I figured you would like it and she agreed,” Petyr lied smoothly. “Firstly, I will not take no as an answer. I’ll not have you sulk the entire time we’re here either.”

“I do not sulk!” Sansa retorted hotly.

“Then stop moping around the house and accompany me into the city,” Petyr rolled his eyes. “Good god, woman, you would think I was torturing you.”

“But, it would not do you or her well to have the ton gossip because of me,” Sansa tried to explain. She wanted to go, most definitely but inevitably this would end badly.

“Sweetling, I’m convinced gossip is the water of life keeping those old hags alive,” he laughed, pouring himself a drink in the same glass she used. “Tomorrow it will be us and the next day they’ll find someone else’s life to ruin. If you haven’t noticed, I have a deplorable reputation in this town as it is. In fact, I do believe you have told me so on several occasions.”

Petyr downed the liquid in one gulp and sat down at his desk. He did have a point. Neither Petyr or Myranda had stellar reputations. Still, something in her gut was telling Sansa this was not a good idea. Petyr should have left her at Harrenhal. Myranda was pleasant now, but what if the gossip became too much to bear? She was trying to fix her reputation, not make it worse because of kindness to a traitor. Petyr was a fool if he believed otherwise.

Sooner or later, if they didn’t know already, Kings Landing society would be bustling about the marquess’ new ward.  No matter what Petyr said, Sansa felt it would backfire on them eventually. Sansa predicted it wouldn’t be long before he sent her away. Perhaps it would be a blessing. She had no friends here. At least back at Harrenhal, she had Mrs. Ames and the servants and wouldn’t have to hide behind closed doors all the time.

“When do you expect me to be ready tomorrow?” she sighed.

“Eleven should do,” he eyed her suspiciously. “I do expect one thing, Sansa…”

“Yes?” she answered, turning towards the door.

“The pleasure of your company,” Petyr smiled. “Do us both a favor and wash that sour look off your face and try to enjoy the day.”

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst, fluff and a new rival for Petyr

 

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Lady wasn’t happy at being left behind today, Sansa smiled as the carriage drove through the center of Kings Landing. As much as she wanted to take her little wolf to the park, she knew it was virtually impossible. The look in the pup’s eyes was that of frustration and sadness, and Sansa felt terrible for her. However, she couldn’t deny the excitement she felt as Petyr helped her into the carriage. Sansa didn’t realize how isolated she felt until they were on their way into the busy city.

“It’s good to see you smile,” his voice interrupted Sansa’s thoughts.

“Oh, am I?” she lied but couldn’t help the blush on her cheeks.

Petyr was in a good mood this morning as they broke their fast. It seemed he was dying to get out of the house as much as she. Gazing out the window, the city was just as chaotic as Sansa expected. Along the walkways, vendors sold their wares, numerous riders, carriages, as carts filled the cobblestone streets.

It was unseasonably warm today in the southern capital, and Sansa wondered as to how much snow Harrenhal had now. This morning, Sansa left her wool pelisse and opted for her shawl instead. How strange it was to wear a shawl in mid-November. The warm southern winds and water kept the climate here calm but not the winter chill she expected.

Sansa heard the call of merchants on the streets and kept her attention to the city life as they passed by. She could feel Petyr’s eyes on her the entire time as if he seemed interested in her reaction to the city. Petyr’s townhouse was in the southeastern and fashionable part of town as they made their way into the heart of the city.

From here, Sansa could see the royal palace on the shore of Blackwater Bay. It sprawled, in its grandeur down the coastline and Sansa couldn’t help but wonder what her life would have been if she had married Joffrey. She would have been a crown princess.

Now Lady Margery was set to marry and become the queen of Westeros. It didn’t surprise Sansa in the least that it could be Lady Margery. She was stunning, so Sansa heard; witty and elegant and would fit the role well. Tyrell’s only daughter was rumored to be kind, and Sansa hoped the woman knew what she was getting into with Joffrey and the Lannisters.

“Ah, the palace,” Petyr mused. “Do you regret not becoming a princess, sweetling?”

Petyr’s unsettling talent for mind reading made her lips quirk into a half-smile.

“ _No_ ,” she emphasized with a laugh.

“Clever girl,” he grinned. “Lady – I mean Queen Margery will have quite the task in taming that boy.”

Sansa turned to him in surprise, “They’re already married?”

“Oh yes, about a fortnight ago,” he offered simply.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Sansa wondered.

Petyr looked out the window and added casually, “Ah, I didn’t think you would be quite that interested, my dear. Besides, it doesn’t really matter who the king marries at this point.”

“You don’t believe the Tyrell’s will have any influence on the throne?” Sansa scoffed. For someone that seemed to take pride in knowing everything about everyone, this was a new development.

“Margery is harmless enough… her grandmother, the Dowager Duchess, is very interesting. Don’t let her age fool you, she is far from feeble,” Petyr chuckled.

“It’s not as though I will be meeting her anytime in the future,” Sansa smirked and returned to gazing out her window.

“One never knows, sweetling,” Petyr mused. “Always keep your guard up in this city. You never know who you’ll bump into.”

“Play my part is that it – the humble and grateful ward to my generous benefactor?” Sansa rolled her eyes.

“Yes, quite,” he smiled.

“Whatever it takes to get me out that house, I suppose,” she grumbled under her breath, and Petyr laughed heartily.

“We both needed an outing, my dear. Myranda will join us for supper tonight so let’s not ruin the day with bickering. I plan to fully enjoy myself,” he teased. “With that said, stay aware of your surroundings. No one here is to be trusted.”

“Worried, I will accidentally spill your secrets to some handsome young man that attempts to catch my eye?” Sansa teased back.

Petyr chuckled even as his eyes narrowed slightly, “Try as you might but remember your situation, sweetling. _I am your only friend here_. Without me, you’ll surely be sinking in quicksand if you haven’t been sold off to a brothel first.”

“And bringing me here isn’t going to cause _you_ any trouble?” she countered not letting him win this little battle.

“Not if you play along, love,” Petyr grinned. “Come, enough of this. It’s a beautiful day.”

The carriage had come to a stop at a large building with stone columns and carvings that reminded Sansa of Greek temples in her father’s books. Petyr exited and waited with his gloved hand stretched out to her. Sansa decided to leave her frustrations and suspicions in the carriage, taking his hand and stepping out into the bright sunlit walkway. Trees here still had their leaves even though they were bathed in reds and golds. The gardens were lovely, with expertly trimmed hedges and topiaries.

Petyr donned his dark grey hat that matched his topcoat. Even during the day, he was immaculately dressed as any man Sansa had ever known. Petyr took pride in his finely tailored clothes and appearance. The streaks of grey were almost hidden by his hat and made him look younger, she noticed. Petyr was rather handsome in his own way. If he were nearer her age, would she have taken note of him before knowing his reputation?

Those green eyes smiled in amusement as he offered her his arm. Sansa paused for a moment to adjust her wide-brimmed hat with flowers and ribbons in the soft breeze. Taking his arm, at last, he led her up multiple tiers of granite steps. Members of society greeted them as gentlemen tipped their hats, and ladies nodded. Petyr knew some by name and gave a passing salutation. Sansa didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t this. These people either didn’t know who she was or probably believed she was just another one of his mistresses and did not care.

Two gentlemen greeted them with enthusiasm, and Sansa realized they must be involved with Petyr in some sort of business. She stood quietly and tried not to draw any attention to herself.

“Baelish, I must say, you always have the loveliest ladies on your arm,” one man laughed as both Petyr and Sansa caught his meaning. Sansa expected Petyr to play her off as one of his mistresses for certainly a man wouldn’t say such a thing to a known lady of the ton.

“May I introduce, Lady Sansa, my ward,” Petyr turned to her with a smile.

Both men looked astonished. Apparently, not everyone knew of this arrangement. Perhaps Myranda had not told a soul about them. Sansa was sure she would be greeted with some kind of hostility and disrespect early on.

“Lady Sansa? Ned Stark’s girl? Oh, Baelish, you didn’t,” one man tutted in amusement.

The other, however, was quick to bow and excuse himself only acknowledging Petyr in the courtesy.

“Is there a problem? She recanted publicly, did she not? I can’t see why one must hold a grudge over a woman,” Petyr turned to smile at her, “… so beautiful and kind.”

Sansa felt her cheeks flame and lowered her head to hide her face under the bonnet.

“Well, if I were you Baelish, I wouldn’t keep her here too long before the king finds out. You know his temper – ” the man flustered.

“Pssh, he knows my love for beautiful things. Certainly, he wouldn’t begrudge me, his loyal servant who has brought so much gold into his treasury, the simple pleasures. We’re not attending one of his balls, just a day at the gallery. Where is the harm, I ask you?” Petyr chuckled, but Sansa couldn’t help but fume as she stood still and clutched his arm letting him know her displeasure.

“It’s your head, my friend,” the man laughed nervously. “I suppose if I were to die, I’d rather have a creature like that to bed first instead of that rancid thing I call my wife. Good day,” he smiled and raked his beady eyes down her body, making Sansa ill.

Petyr’s grasped her arm and held it tightly as he pulled her away towards the entrance. The footman took both their hats as Sansa kept her shawl firmly around her shoulders. She couldn’t believe a man would say such lewd things to a lady. What burned her insides is that Petyr let him. He didn’t defend her honor. She was only adornment on his arm and nothing more.

She followed Petyr into the main foyer and was already wanting to leave before seeing one piece of art. The sun streamed through the lead-framed skylights high above into the main gallery. Beautiful southern plants with their large green foliage accented the red damask walls and marble columns.

Unexpectedly, Petyr pulled her around a vast plant and hid partially behind the polished pillar of stone from curious eyes.

Petyr was so close she could see just how green his eyes were. His breath was warm and smelled of mint as Sansa thought for a moment that he might kiss her. He hovered for a second before tilting her chin up, and Sansa held her breath. She eyes peered through the leaves worried someone might see, but they were completely hidden.

“What did I tell you before leaving the carriage about the people here?” he breathed.

“Don’t trust anyone,” Sansa muttered staring at his lips.

“Very good,” he smirked and licked his lips in thought. “That man is a boil on a boar’s arse. Pay him no attention. It was just smoke and mirrors, Sansa. I have a reputation, as you know. I’m only keeping up appearances.”

“Are you?” she breathed. “Just keeping up appearances?”

There was something in his eyes that flashed for a moment and then it was gone.

“Hmm, well, I must admit I’m toning it down some,” he smirked as his eyes never left her mouth. “Sooner or later I will need to become the loyal husband for… Lady Myranda’s sake.”

“So, I’m supposed to settle for insults and disgusting gossip of being your mistress, is that it?” Sansa held her ground. “You could have left me in Harrenhal. At least I would have to be subjected to it. Do you wish that for me?”

Petyr took her gloved hands in his and held them for a moment in silence.

“Sweeting, what I’m trying to say, inarticulately, is that the ton will see you as any man’s mistress instead of the lady you are,” he explained quietly. “That you’re with me is of no real consequence. I’m known for it, and I’m sorry. A tiger can’t exactly change his stripes.”

“You didn’t answer me,” Sansa pressed again. “Why did you bring me here? As I said before, I’m going to become a problem for you and Myranda just with my presence. You should have left me for the winter.”

Petyr brought her fingers to his lips and smiled gently.

“No,” he whispered. “I couldn’t leave you alone for months. I may trust you, but certainly not the blackguards in the Riverlands knowing I have a beautiful and virtuous girl living all alone for the winter. A young woman, unchaperoned? No, no, no….”

He was quiet, and Sansa looked around again hoping no one noticed them hiding here. That would be terrible gossip for which he would not be able to talk his way out of.

“If you wish to go back home, I’ll take you. I rather had plans to escort you to a few places since you’ve always wanted to come to the capital. You needn’t worry about Myranda, as I said, we’ve discussed it,” Petyr finally released her hands and searched Sansa’s face for an answer.

Sansa hesitated, he was beginning to know her too well. Petyr knew damn well she wanted to come to the gallery. Now his words piqued her curiosity. Where else did he want to take her?

“Well, we’re already here,” she started and saw the smile grow on his face. “It would be a waste not to see all this.”

Petyr moved past her and peered around the plant, looking for an opportunity. His hand told her to stay put for a moment as he walked out and waited. A flick of his wrist told her it was safe and Sansa followed him further until they stood in front of a whimsical scene of cherubs, Pan and Pysche in a garden. Pastorals didn’t seem to impress Petyr that much, Sansa assumed when he took her arm and moved to the next painting.

The gallery was enormous, and it was rather interesting observing other patrons just as much as the art itself. Some people were aficionados, and others appeared bored to tears. There weren’t too many people here today, and Sansa was grateful.

Only a handful of times did gentlemen or ladies stare at her and Petyr. Two ladies were obviously whispering about them as a couple of men did a double-take. Occasionally, someone would greet Petyr casually, but thankfully, it was brief.

Sansa was right about Petyr. He was well educated and loved art. Almost every painting he knew something about the artist or the work itself pointing out little details. Time passed slowly as Sansa was immersed in his voice and storytelling. She was happy that he dominated the conversation and learned quite a bit about certain styles and techniques that artists copied from each other and how old some painting were. He said there was quite a romanticism about current artists today in their use of color and themes. Sansa was almost drunk on his words as they slowly moved from piece to piece.

Sansa stood in front of a beautiful woman lounging in a blue-green dress with peach rosettes. She was captivating with her silvery blonde hair and aire of elegance that Sansa couldn't tear her eyes away.

“I see you have found the counterpoint to the painting in your room back home,” she could hear the smile in Petyr’s voice. “Madame de Pompadour. She is rather striking, isn’t she?”

She stared at the French king’s mistress, studying the woman’s face. She was relaxed in her position not only in the portrait but in her place in life. She was a woman in charge of her situation, and Sansa was envious.

“Only a king’s mistress, so favored, would have portraits such as this,” he admired the work. “There are several of her from what I understand. A beautiful and powerful woman. Knew her position and how to use it to her advantage.”

“A king’s mistress would never sit for a portrait in this country,” Sansa japed. She couldn’t imagine the kind of mistress that Joffrey would have as it was. The French court wasn’t as harsh to such women it seemed. Here, such a thing would never happen.

“Right you are,” Petyr spoke in quiet praise and echoed her thoughts in a whisper, “Joffrey could never get a woman so beautiful, don’t you agree?”

Sansa stifled a laugh with her hand and dared not look at him, afraid she would burst. Petyr pulled her hand down and stared at her strangely that made Sansa blush for the hundredth time today.

“You have never sat for a portrait, have you sweetling?” he asked serenely surprising her.

“No,” she replied. “Father was going to commission one when I was introduced to society, but then Queen Cersei said a royal portrait would be made instead –  well, as you can see, that never happened. There’s an old portrait of Mother at Riverrun. Mrs. Cole said I always looked like her… and..”

“Shame,” he said, studying her. “Nothing would be more beautifully immortal than you.”

Sansa didn’t know how to respond to that. Shouldn’t he be saying that about his bride to be?

“You should have Myranda’s portrait commissioned,” Sansa lied. “Wouldn’t she be lovely in blue?”

In a heartbeat, Petyr’s demeanor changed, and that congenial façade took over instantly.

“Why yes, that would be a lovely gift,” he replied softly, but there was something in his tone that didn’t sound right. “Thank you for suggesting it. Yes, a wedding portrait would be something Myranda might like.”

“Do you have a likeness?” Sansa couldn’t stop herself from asking.

“Me? Ah, you’re too generous, my dear,” he chuckled. “This face has seen better days. Even when I first came into my wealth, it never occurred to me to have a portrait. Who did I have to impress? Unlike some of these stuffed shirts,” Petyr glanced at other lords in the gallery, “I don’t need to inflate my ego more than it already is.”

“Now that you’re to marry… and you _are_ Marquess and the Lord Paramount – well, you might reconsider?” Sansa pressed him a little further.

Petyr seemed to ponder it, but his eyes were full of mirth, and Sansa couldn’t stop the smile on her face. Yes, she liked Petyr when he was like this.

“Hmm, you think a good artist could deliver a miracle and make me handsome and ten years younger?” he japed, and Sansa laughed loudly but quickly stifled it when people took notice of them.

“You’re not ugly, my lord,” she teased, casting her eyes to the floor. Sansa didn’t want him to see right through her.

Petyr put a hand to his chest and frowned playfully, “But not handsome either. Oh, a compliment in reverse.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sansa shushed him not wanting him to make a scene.

He chuckled, taking her arm and glancing at their observers. “Yes, well, that’s about as close to a compliment I’ve had from you, so I will take it most happily.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Petyr escorted Sansa to lunch at a restaurant with an adjoining greenhouse garden. He asked for a private table so they might dine quietly away from judging eyes behind lush greenery with the scent blossoms in the air.

With the exception of the rude men from earlier, it had been almost a perfect day. Petyr was every bit the gentleman Sansa could have asked for on such an outing. He was pleasant and charming and made her feel as if she were the only woman in the room. Sansa couldn’t even imagine his roguish side right now. Petyr acted with ease as if he’d been a well brought up gentleman his entire life. How would it be to tour the city with him without the sneers and gossip of society? Sansa had almost forgotten he was engaged to be married. This outing felt as if Petyr was actually courting her rather than a man with his ward.

They waited for the carriage to be brought around to take them home and Sansa felt a twinge of disappointment. She didn’t want it to end just yet. Today, Petyr belonged to her, and once they stepped inside those doors, the magic would be gone. He was still going to marry Myranda, and Sansa would be a spinster for the rest of her life. There was a tiny ache in her chest and didn’t know from whence it came.

“Wait here, I’ll return in a moment,” Petyr told her by the lamp post. Sansa wrapped her shawl around her for the air was turning a bit chilly in the late afternoon. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be long.

Sansa watched carriages and riders pass as busy people wandered the walkways where shops awaited patrons. She saw a little girl in a floral dress and matching bonnet throwing her dolly in the air as her father caught it and gave it back to her. Sansa moved from the lamp post to continue watching them as they walked down the opposite side of the street. It reminded Sansa, so much of her father. He played with wooden swords with Arya and let Sansa be the little princess.

A loud whinny and strong arms yanking her back made Sansa shriek as a fast moving horse and cart almost hit her. A man held her tightly as they both fell to the ground tearing her pretty dress in the process.

“Miss, are you alright? Are you hurt?” the kindly voice asked in desperation.

The man moved quickly, trying to help her up as Sansa spied the face of a very handsome young man. He was blonde with sea-blue eyes and couldn’t be much older than her years.

“I’m alright, yes,” Sansa mumbled and saw just how close she had come to being trampled. How far did she wander from the lamp post into the street? How did she not pay attention? The man in the cart was yelling at her for being in his way as the young man shouted back that he could have killed her yet Sansa couldn’t hear what was being said as shock set in.

The young man helped Sansa up, inspecting her for any damage when Petyr came dashing, holding a large bouquet of flowers.

“Sansa! Good god, are you hurt?” he gasped out of breath, looking her over.

“No, it was stupid, really. If it hadn’t been for… “ Sansa looked to the blonde who seemed to be a little disappointed at Petyr’s arrival. “I’m sorry, may I have your name, sir?”

“This is Sir Harrold Hardyng, ward of Lady Waynwood,” Petyr supplied with a strange tone before the young man could answer.

“My lord,” Harrold tipped his head in respect. “The last time we spoke was at Gulltown – a few years ago was it?”

“Returned from abroad, I see,” Petyr mentioned nonchalantly as his attention was solely on Sansa. “My dear, are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“Really, my lord, just shaken. I didn’t see him…” she mumbled looking at the horse cart and Petyr began yelling at the man.

“She just came out of nowhere, m’lord… I barely had time to stop. I didn’t mean to hurt the lady,” the man flustered at the marquess.

“Here, I don’t want you to trip. Hold still,” Harrold bent down and took a knife to her ripped skirt where a long piece of lace trailed on the ground.

Pocketing the knife, he stood smiling at Sansa. “My lady, please be more careful. It would be an awful shame to see such a beautiful lady get hurt. May I know the name of the angel I just saved?”

It was a dreadful attempt at flattery, Sansa thought, but she couldn’t be rude to the man that just saved her life.

“Lady Sansa,” she smiled warmly when Harrold picked up her dirty glove and kissed her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Sir Harrold.”

“Harry, please. I never did like being called Harrold,” he grinned charmingly, and Sansa couldn’t help the little flutter in her stomach. He was very handsome, indeed.

Petyr practically pushed Harry aside to attend to her once again. There was something in his eyes that she had never seen before. It wasn’t anger, not necessarily. It wasn't directed at her but for some reason at the man that saved her.

“Harry, much obliged, but I must get her home and make sure she is well,” Petyr said with a tone of finality.

“Of course, my lady’s well-being should be attended to,” Harry smiled, watching Petyr fuss over her. “May I call on Lady Sansa when she is feeling better?”

“Lady Sansa is not receiving callers for now,” Petyr clipped as he helped her into the carriage.

Sansa glimpsed Harry from the window and caught his eye. He bowed gracefully and gave her a winning smile. Petyr tapped on the roof, and his carriage pulled out into the street. When she leaned back into her seat, Petyr was watching her most curiously. Sansa was at a loss for words.

Suddenly Petyr sighed deeply and leaned forward, taking in her torn dress and dirty hands. Convinced she was injured, he checked her over and then had the audacity to lift up a foot and then the other. Her stocking was ripped as they both noticed a bit of blood above her shoe. Sansa must have scraped her leg when she fell. Gentle fingers explored the cut, tearing the bloodied stocking away.

Petyr took out his handkerchief and lightly dabbed the scrape gauging her reaction if he was causing pain. Sansa almost gasped at the tenderness of his touch. His hand was on her calf and then buttoning her shoe. The shoe clattered to the floor of the carriage as his hands inspected her ankle gently.

“You didn’t turn it? This doesn’t hurt?” Petyr asked, slightly rotating and massaging her foot.

“No,” she breathed. Sansa almost wanted to lie so that he would continue. Feeling his hands on her foot was practically sinful.

“Sansa,” he began as he kept his eyes on his task. “I don’t want you anywhere near Harrold Hardyng, do you understand me?”

“Why? He seemed kind and…”

“ _No_. He is not the kind of man you should be associating with. His reputation is deplorable,” Petyr growled.

“You’re one to talk,” Sansa shot back, not sure if she was defending Harry or just wanted to call Petyr out on his hypocrisy.

Petyr set her foot down and leaned back into his seat. “Yes, I am a rake, a seducer of men’s wives with a mistress on every street corner and gamble away thousands of pounds every night. _That’s_ how I know what kind of man he is.”

“Does Myranda know what she is marrying?” Sansa retorted coldly. “Or did she turn you into a better man?”

“You act as if she is a virgin saint,” he chuckled darkly. “Of course she knows. It is you who are naïve right now. Stay away from Hardyng. He is not worthy of you.”

Sansa huffed and crossed her arms, looking out the window.

“Who is? No man in his right mind wants me. I know what I’m not. Not fit for a proper marriage to any decent gentleman,” Sansa sighed and refused to look at him. “I do believe my options are mistress, temporary ward, or housekeeper. I’m _not_ naïve.”

The ride was silent for some time, and Sansa was glad of it for she had nothing to say. A rustling of paper caught her off guard as a soft bundle was placed in her lap. It was the flowers Petyr had purchased, and they were beautiful. Sansa fingered a delicate rose petal and felt her eyes well up. No, she would not shed one tear. Not for him.

Taking only one rose from the massive bundle, she handed the rest back to him.

“You should only give flowers to your bride,” Sansa whispered and said no more.

 

* * *

 

 

That night they dined with Lady Myranda, and all Sansa wanted to do was take her supper in her room, but Petyr wouldn’t hear of it. Myranda wanted to know all about the gallery, yet both Sansa and Petyr neglected to say anything about the accident. Dinner went by in a blur and Sansa barely listened or contributed to the conversation as they took tawny port in the parlor. Myranda swooned over the flowers Petyr did not intend for her, making Sansa feel all the worse. 

She could hear Lady whining upstairs, begging to be let out. The wolf still hated Myranda, and for good reason, Sansa mused. That animal had an excellent memory. Sansa excused herself to care for her pet before she chewed the door open. They were still talking in the parlor when Sansa took Lady to the garden to do her business and used the wolf to make her excuse to retire for the night.

Padding softly to the parlor, hoping to pass by unnoticed to the stairs, Myranda came into the hallway with a smile.

“It’s late, isn’t it? I must head home lest father thinks badly of me,” the brunette giggled.

“I doubt that,” Sansa forced a smile holding the growling wolf.

“Oh, she will never like me now, will she?” Myranda frowned at the animal.

“She’ll come around. She just doesn’t know you well yet,” Sansa smiled sadly and wondered where Petyr disappeared to.

Petyr entered from the front door as one of the maid’s fastened Myranda’s cloak around her. Good, she was leaving, and Sansa could finally go to bed.

“Goodnight, Myranda,” she said and refused to look at Petyr, adding curtly. “My lord...”

“Goodnight, my dear,” she heard his voice as Sansa ascended the stairs.

“Do I get a goodnight kiss?” Myranda’s sultry voice asked as Sansa crossed the landing towards her room when she saw the brunette slide her arms around Petyr’s neck, kissing him deeply. His hands found her waist when Sansa dashed to her room, locking herself inside, not seeing the man had pushed the woman away.

Sansa set Lady down and leaned against her door. Where was her little ghost when she needed her? Someone to tell her everything was going to be okay. Before she knew it, the tears fell, and Sansa detested herself for being weak. She saw the single red rose on the mantel in a slender crystal vase. Sansa walked over and grabbed the flower, crushing it in her hand.

_I do not care for him_

_I do not care for him_

_I’m the greatest of fools if I care for him_

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love sassy, jealous Petyr. Yes, yes, I do.

 

[ ](https://postimages.org/)

 

 

 

 

 

Flowers arrived for Sansa every day since the accident and Petyr was annoyed by it. They both knew who sent them even without a card attached even though Petyr found the notes neatly folded so small as to be hidden amongst the flowers. He did not show Sansa the messages but read them privately in his study. They were brief but perfunctory in wooing her and asking to convince Petyr to allow him a visit. He had to give the boy credit for being resourceful knowing her guardian’s refusal to let him call upon her.

Petyr didn’t say anything when his disposition changed every time the bell rang right after breaking their fast. On cue, every day, a man would deliver a gorgeous bundle of colorful blooms for Sansa and Brooks awaiting Petyr’s instructions. Each time, he would find the notes and remove them from her sight. Refusing the flowers would make Petyr appear controlling yet the letters were meant solely to exploit her gentle nature. Sansa gained nothing from this correspondence.

However, after the fourth day, Petyr just waved his hand in irritation, silently telling the butler to put the new addition with the rest in the parlor. He could have simply rejected the gifts each time, sending them back to the young man expressing his intentions for the girl, but Petyr suppressed the inclination. The questioning in Sansa’s eyes was unmistakable.

Petyr expressed his displeasure at entertaining any invitation from the boy only once since the accident. Harry was worse than Petyr had ever been in his youth, and he could see that Sansa didn’t quite understand why he was so harsh. She had made a good point the other day, Petyr was himself of questionable reputation yet here he was disapproving of a young and handsome man wishing to call on his little witch.

Harry did not want Sansa for anything other than a tumble in his bed. He would sweep the down-trodden girl off her feet, and once he sated his lust, he’d throw her to the gutter. Sir Harrold Hardyng was looking for a woman with wealth and title so he could pay his gambling debts and continue to whore himself around town. Sansa had no money or title, so pursuing her was merely to bed a pretty girl. Petyr would beat that boy into the ground before letting it happen.

The bell rang as they finished breakfast, and Petyr fought not to roll his eyes as he looked at the clock. Right on time, he frowned to himself. He glanced at Sansa, and smartly she drank her tea, keeping her eyes down. She didn’t know it, but Petyr was insanely jealous of the handsome lad.

Hardyng was a few years older than Sansa, and if he were a decent man, he would be the type she might fall in love with. The idea made his stomach burn with hate when he saw her blush at Harrold’s flattery and a hint of anger when Petyr denied her any involvement with the boy. It was for her own good, Petyr convinced himself. Harrold would leave her in tears and heartache.

Brooks entered the dining room with another bouquet of flowers, but instead of the usual question, he told them a caller waited at the door. The butler stood slightly nervous, waiting for his master’s cue. Petyr immediately wanted the boy turned away, for who else could it be? He glanced at Sansa’s surprised face that quickly flushed bright red. She knew as well as he.

“Who is it, Brooks?” Petyr asked, knowing the answer.

“Sir Harrold Hardyng, my lord,” the butler replied. “He wishes to have a word with Lady Sansa.”

“I’m sure he does,” Petyr muttered. “Tell him she is not receiving callers presently if you please.”

“Yes, my lord,” Brooks answered and retreated back to the foyer.

“I should at least thank him for the flowers, Petyr,” Sansa whispered. “They were a lovely gesture.”

“Hmph. Yes, the gesture is well played to only serve him,” Petyr sighed. “I would have thought the Eyrie had taught you about men’s intentions.”

“They’re only flowers,” she muttered angrily, and Petyr knew that if he did not stamp out this attempt to woo her, it would only cause trouble. Harry, by now, knew who Sansa was, and his persistence meant only two things. Neither of them Petyr would allow over his dead body.

“Yes, and now he’s waited a respectable amount of time and is at our door seeking you,” he smiled. “Harry knows how the game is played.”

“Well, you’ve been spending your time with Lady Myranda…” she hesitated. “Would it be so terrible that…”

“What did I tell you about him, Sansa? What he wants from you is far from respectable,” Petyr sighed, setting down his tea. “Flowers seem to have erased that from your mind.”

Petyr knew Sansa was flattered by the flowers and intentions. Any young lady would be if a charming, handsome young man lavished such attentions and Petyr paused. He forgot how young Sansa was. She would turn three and twenty this year. Other than a brief first season and quick betrothal to Joffrey before the rebellion, Petyr wagered she hadn’t received much attention, such as this, in years. What he observed at Robert’s ball was more direct. The young men did not even attempt to court her, they made it known what it was they wanted from her. They didn’t bother pretending she was a lady.

Harry had heroically saved her life and now was playing the gentleman knowing full well his intentions were anything but gentlemanly. He was playing on the emotions of this lovely girl because he damn well no other gentleman of quality would court her. He was hoping Sansa would fall for his charms that she probably was not used to or expecting.

Petyr glanced at the girl across the table. Sansa couldn’t hide her disappointment. After everything she had been through, the hope of a little romance lingered in her eyes. Petyr had spent quite a bit of time with Myranda the past few days for the sake of appearances and could see the boredom and sadness on Sansa's face each time he returned.

“I thought a stroll in the park today would be lovely,” Petyr smiled but Sansa didn’t look at him. Clearly, she thought he meant with Myranda. “I think Lady would enjoy it, don’t you?”

That popped her head up in confusion.

“The park?”

“Yes, I believe that’s what I said,” he chuckled lightly and stood up. “Go and change your dress. I’ll make a harness for Lady.”

The look on her face was a mixture of concealed happiness and doubt making Petyr stifle a laugh.

“She’ll take your hand off before letting you put it on her,” Sansa japed leaving the table.

That did it as Petyr laughed out loud, catching the smile Sansa tried desperately to conceal before she left the room.

Petyr and Brooks made a harness from a silken cord used for one of the tapestries. He struggled putting it on the animal just as Sansa had predicted. Once Lady realized Petyr wasn’t trying to harm her, she finally let him slip it on and fasten it snuggly.

The wolf pawed at him and trotted around in excitement. She was dying to leave the house, and Petyr couldn’t blame her. She had been cooped up and denied her natural instincts. Sansa came down the stairs with shock painted on her face.

“How did you…?”

“You continually doubt me, sweetling,” Petyr grinned. “Come, it looks to be a gorgeous day.”

Sansa was having trouble with the ribbon for her bonnet when Petyr swatted her hands away. He took his time making sure he was as close to her as possible while he tied the ribbon fashionably around her neck. Sansa smelled divine, and it was all Petyr could do not to ravage her mouth right here in the foyer.

“There,” he mused. “Perfect.”

Petyr took her arm as Lady excitedly charged for the door when the footman opened it. Outside, his Phaeton waited. It was still warm enough for a stroll before winter finally made its way south. Kings Landing rarely received much, but soon the city would be dusted in snow.

The footman helped Sansa up into the small two-person carriage as Petyr handed her the wolf that barked with eagerness. Petyr climbed in, and the white horse whinnied anxiously.

“Are you warm enough?” Petyr asked eyeing the fur wrap. Sansa’s wool could be too warm in the bright sun, but Petyr brought his topcoat in case.

“I’m fine,” she replied, holding onto Lady as Petyr flicked the reigns and the horse trotted into the street. “Are we going somewhere nearby?”

“King’s Park,” he told her.

“King’s – ” she stuttered with wide eyes. “That’s near the palace, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Petyr smiled to a passersby.

“Why there?” she asked nervously.

“I have a surprise, sweetling,” Petyr chuckled.

“Are we meeting Myranda today?”

“No, she is otherwise engaged with Lady Francis, the Countess of Ashford. If I wanted to sleep, well, I’d rather stay at home,” he jested, making her smile.

As he drove her through the city closer to the bay, Petyr could see Sansa’s nerves come to the surface. King’s Park, she knew, would most likely be filled with high society on a day like this… and she would be right. Petyr had only a few planned attempts to showcase Sansa in public as the news would travel fast.

Men of reputation did not bring their mistresses, let alone the daughter of the disgraced duke, to mingle with proper ladies and gentlemen of court society. And display her, he would. Petyr would flaunt the bright jewel on his arm until finally, His Majesty would have to deal with him.

Petyr knew the boy king too well. The aristocrats thought they were clever with their little intrigues and punishments. Petyr was too valuable to them in matters of finance and managing the Riverlands, hoping to avoid more contracts with the Tyrells and Martells. Keeping the Riverlands profitable kept them from having to give any power to Dorne or the Reach. Playing Petyr’s game was a smaller price to pay. They would make an example of the king’s chief financier, thinking it worked against him. What fools they were.

He pulled the carriage over and hopped out, securing the horse. Tucking Lady under his arm, Petyr offered his hand aiding Sansa down as the breeze whipped her skirts. She adjusted the fur stole while he set Lady down while the wolf wagged her tail with sensory overload. Thankfully, the makeshift leash held true as the animal tugged against it willing her masters to move along. Petyr took Sansa’s arm and linked it in his as they made their way through the park, painted in hues of red and gold.

Time passed slowly as leaves crunched under their feet and Lady sniffed and yapped at everything in her path. She desperately wanted to run free, but Petyr held the leash steadfast as they strolled along. He tipped his hat in greeting to passing couples as some greeted him in kind, but others only stared at the woman on his arm.

The sun was bright this afternoon and one could hardly believe it was so late in the year. Today, it felt more like September than November. Sansa opened her parasol as she squinted from the sun, but Petyr thought it was more to hide behind. He felt it in the way she held his arm and avoidance of the people that were clearly gossiping about them.

Petyr pointed out the architecture of the Royal Cathedral to their right, patterned after stunning ruins in Rome. Not a religious man, Petyr had only been inside once during Joffrey’s coronation. The royal palace wasn’t too far away as it sloped up along the coastal point giving the bay a beautiful skyline. The tower bell sounded as the clock struck noon as Sansa stared at the palace for some time.

“Are you alright?” Petyr asked, gauging her stone expression.

“Yes,” she answered in kind but did not tear her eyes away from the building. “May we go now?”

“Go? I thought you would be dying to get out on a day like this,” Petyr tried to lighten her mood as the girl nervously looked around.

Sansa didn’t like them looking at her and Petyr felt a twinge of regret at what he was doing. In the end, it would be worth it, he told himself. He would make her understand. Petyr was about to lead Sansa to the surprise when Lady growled and snarled. He sighed, waiting to hear the brunette’s voice, but it was far too masculine, which was even worse.

“Lady Sansa. Lord Baelish,” the charming voice called from behind. “I thought that was you.”

Petyr grimaced as Harry made his way over knowing the boy had followed them. Damnit, why did he not think of that before they left? Sansa turned to Petyr in shock and silently asked him what to do. He patted her arm cautiously, giving Sansa a knowing look to follow his lead.

Lady barked viciously at the blonde as he approached and Petyr couldn’t have been more proud of that animal’s pure instincts. She knew, as Petyr did, Harry was nothing but trouble. Petyr tugged on the leash a bit, but Lady stood her ground protecting her mistress, putting just enough distance between them and Harrold Hardyng.

“Sir Harrold,” Petyr’s voice dripped condescendingly. “What a surprise to find you here.  Did you lose your way? I believe the brothel you frequent is on the _other_ side of town.”

Harry had the decency to smirk for he very well knew he couldn’t pick a fight with a higher lord in the middle of the park and with a lady present.

“Well, I don’t have the funds or the peerage for acceptance to Black’s. Which is why I’m rather surprised you are such a welcome patron,” the boy took aim, making Petyr smile. Oh, he was witty, this one.

“Ah, money and power are useful, but you wouldn’t know that. One day, perhaps I’ll teach you to gamble and win for once instead of having to court rich widows to enable your habits,” Petyr chuckled and glanced at Sansa. “This conversation is titillating, I must say, but not for the ears of ladies.”

“The ear of the lady is why I’m here until you had to degrade the conversation,” Harry quipped as he bowed to Sansa gracefully.

“Oh, there was a gentile conversation to be had? By all means, _we’re_ dying to know what is on your mind,” Petyr shot back with an air of arrogance.

“I never did care for your humor Lord Baelish. It is even less amusing sober,” the boy growled.

Petyr raised his eyebrows mockingly as if he were wounded by the insult and pulled out his gold pocket watch.

“Which is why I’m amazed at your coherency. Isn’t it time for your noon feeding?” he smiled, holding Sansa’s arm more firmly. “Or have the taverns kicked you out so early in the day?”

The boy was turning beet red, and Petyr had to withhold his delight. He knew damn well why Harry was here, and Petyr wasn’t going to make it easy for him. If he was lucky, he could use Harry in his favor. The boy hated him, that much was evident but fancied Sansa. Harry would be more than happy to get the rumor mill into full swing if it meant damaging Petyr in any way publicly.

“I won’t even dignify that with a response,” Harry turned up his chin, attempting a move towards Sansa before Lady growled again halting him.

Sansa’s fingers dug into Petyr’s arm as she spoke, “What it is you have to tell me, Sir Harrold?”

Petyr fought a smile at the use of Harrold and not _Harry_ , as he preferred to be called.

“If your, _chaperone_ , would be so kind as to let me have a word with you in private?” Harry asked eyeing Petyr.

“That is the point of a chaperone, Harrold, to protect a lady’s virtue,” Petyr japed as Sansa elbowed him hard underneath her fur wrap. “Whatever you have to say, it will be in my presence.”

“My intentions are honorable, my lady,” Harry spoke. Petyr coughed slightly making Sansa frown at him. He couldn’t help it, this was by far too ridiculous a charade to be believed. However, Sansa did not have an ungracious bone in her body and Petyr decided to see how poetic the boy could be in lying.

“My mind has been filled with only you since that day,” Harry began again as Petyr rolled his eyes. “You would honor me beyond words… “  he glanced at Petyr’s bored expression, “… to accompany me to the theatre tomorrow evening. I do not own a box, or I would, of course, expect Lord Baelish to act as your duenna – ”

“Oh?” Sansa squeaked looking to Petyr for help. “Erm, well – Sir Harrold, you do flatter me but…”

Petyr saw her drowning and finally jumped in, “What Lady Sansa means, is that she is already engaged for tomorrow evening. I have reserved my box for the new opera. I’m very sorry, Harrold. Terrible timing.”

That took the wind out of Harry’s sails! Petyr couldn’t have been happier. The boy was flummoxed and tried to control his anger towards the older man.

“I am truly sorry,” Sansa chimed in, but Petyr noted a tone of sincerity that he didn’t care for. “I’m sure it would have been lovely and thank you so kindly for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”

Harry mustered enough grace to bow, taking her gloved hand and kissing it lightly. “Another time, perhaps, my lady?” It wasn’t a question as the boy released her hand, backing away accepting defeat.

“Perhaps,” she smiled warmly.

Harry smiled back, but it didn’t reach his eyes, and Petyr was thrilled. The boy straightened his posture and nodded to Petyr out of etiquette alone, not respect. The two of them watched the blonde cross a grassy area and disappear behind tall hedges when Sansa turned and slapped Petyr’s arm hard enough to bruise.

“What in the world was that?” she glared.

Petyr bent down to pick up Lady who was gnawing at her make-shift leash, fearing she would succeed in tearing it apart.

“That, my dear, was protecting your virtue,” he smiled, petting the wolf in his arms.

“Really? That’s not what it looked like to me,” she growled and tried to grab Lady forcing Petyr to retreat a few steps back as she confronted him.

“Pray, tell, what was it? Please educate me,” he jested, taking a few more steps backward.

“That was you being an arse,” Sansa huffed looking around not wanting to draw any more attention to themselves. “You’re _not_ my father.”

Petyr’s smile faltered, “Indeed, I am not.” He was protecting her from a piece of filth, did she not appreciate it in the slightest?

“You didn’t have to be so rude. He was only trying to…”

“Bed you any way he could,” Petyr finished for her. “Don’t try to explain to a man his own game.”

“Everything is a game to you men,” Sansa spoke harshly. “You whisper lies of love, honor, and respect and yet all you want is some wanton from a brothel – turning a lady into a whore. For what? Marriage, titles and money? Father’s sell their daughters, and women marry men they don’t love for security and wealth.”

Petyr smirked even though it made her frown deeper.

“Now, you’re thinking soundly,” he praised her. “Do you really believe for one moment that Harry wants to love and respect you?”

Sansa thought about for a moment and then shook her head, sadly. 

“No,” she answered plainly.

“Then don’t sell yourself for a night at the theatre or a hundred flowers. They are meaningless,” he pressed again to drive the point home. Petyr knew she wanted a gentleman to fancy her for the right reasons. He knew she wanted romance, flowers, and love.

If Sansa could only be patient, Petyr would give her everything and more. He would make her a wife, a grand lady, with all the love and respect she could ever wish for, if she’d only let him. No man would love her, not the way Petyr could.

Sansa sighed and held out her arms for Lady. Petyr gave her the wolf and took her arm once more, guiding her in a different direction.

“I always dreamed of going to the theatre. Funny, that and the gallery were two of the reasons I wanted to come to Kings Landing when I was betrothed to Joffrey,” she mused sadly. “At least you gave me one.”

“And I’ll give you the other,” Petyr stopped and grinned, touching her cheek as those blue eyes widened a bit. “Look there,” he pointed.

Sansa followed the direction of his hand towards the beautiful building across the street. She glanced back at him in surprise and then the loveliest of smiles emerged.

“Do you mean it?” she asked incredulously waiting for him to joke with her. “You’re really taking me to the opera?”

“That was my surprise until Hardyng attempted to ruin my afternoon,” Petyr teased.

Unexpectedly, Sansa launched herself at him practically crushing the animal between them in a fierce embrace. Petyr glanced around, slightly shocked that she cared not for decorum. It wasn’t proper at all to be so affectionate in public with a man, not her husband. It couldn’t be more perfect if he planned it. All too soon, as Petyr was enjoying this intimacy, Sansa remembered herself and pulled away quickly.

“I’m sorry, I – “ she stammered.

“Nothing to apologize for, my dear,” he grinned patting Lady on the head.

“Do you really have a box?” Sansa smiled sweetly as that little girl in her came out with excitement. Petyr stared at her in thought that he could spend the rest of his life, making her smile, and it would be well worth the effort.

“Sweetling, you should know me by now. Only the best will do,” he winked.

The handsome, young blonde forgotten, Sansa grinned and kissed her wolf tenderly.

“Do you think my blue silk dress will do? The one with the silvery brocade?” she pondered aloud and Petyr couldn't help but love her pure happiness. Never in his life had a woman been this excited about the opera.

“Well, I’m afraid I did not tell the whole truth, Sansa,” he mock frowned and instantly, her smile fell. “I don’t think any of your dresses will be suitable for tomorrow night. Other than balls, the opera is one of the more fashionable events in society.”

“Oh,” she breathed in disappointment, and he couldn’t bear to tease her any longer.

“So, I had one made, and it’s waiting for you back home,” Petyr grinned seeing her face light up.

Harry? Harry who? Petyr’s ego soared at the thought. That boy had no idea what game he was playing or whom he was playing against. Petyr knew his sweetling, and no other man was going to steal her away. Harry was no match for what Petyr could give Sansa even if the boy’s intentions were pure and honorable. Petyr could provide her with everything her heart desired. If Sansa wanted the moon, he would find a way to pull it down from the sky and make it hers.

Petyr linked his arm with hers walking them back to the waiting carriage to take her home.

“What will they be performing, Petyr? Mozart? Handel? Beethoven?” she questioned him relentlessly.

Helping her into the carriage once more, Petyr climbed in and glanced whimsically at Sansa.

“None of the above,” he chuckled. “A new composer, in fact. I daresay, it will not be well received here.”

Sansa frowned, “Why ever not?”

“Because, sweetling,” he smiled and lifted her chin. “It is based upon a northern legend. A tale, I gather, you know quite well. So, I believe you, and I will be the only ones to appreciate it.”

Sansa scoffed a little, “You know about old northern legends?”

“I do,” he laughed. “I am not native to the south, even though I grew up with your mother.”

“What tale is it?” she asked anxiously as Petyr could see her mind working furiously as to the answer.

“A tale of love and such woe, sweetling,” he took her hand and kissed it softly. “Lovers who could never be together, forced by life to be apart… and died, in the end, in each other’s arms where their souls entwined forever. Do you know of such a tale?”

“Yes,” she whispered in awe. “Tristan and Isolde.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew... a BIG chapter for you today. Never get on Petyr's shit list...

 

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Petyr looked at his pocket watch for the millionth time as he sat in his chair by the fire. It was too warm in the library. Petyr wasn’t sure if it was from the hearth or the many glasses of brandy he had consumed while waiting for Sansa.

Originally, Myranda had wanted to go, but Petyr insisted it wouldn’t do well to have the three of them together. This was his last resort, after all. Or so he told her. Myranda was convinced she had won the silly wager as Petyr had failed to seduce Sansa before Joffrey’s ball in a few days. Petyr knew the final insult would be to parade his traitorous sweetling before the court, and he was anxious to get it over with. Confidence, balanced with information, and timing was vital.

Tonight would kick his plan into high gear as he and Sansa would be the only topic of conversation. Petyr smiled and could almost hear them now…

 

_How dare he!_

_Who does he think he is?_

_His arrogance knows no bounds!_

_He never should have been given a title for he’ll never be one of us._

 

Petyr had escorted mistresses to the theatre before, but Sansa was utterly different. Even though the ton had already deemed her as nothing considering her circumstances, her attendance would still be an insult. She was pardoned by the king, but that did not mean her sentence was null and void among high society. She was an outcast in their eyes, a traitor in name and undesirable in their presence. Keep her in his bed, if he must, but out of sight and mind, never to bring her into their midst.

If Petyr had left her in Harrenhal, most of them would have just assumed the most basic. However, Petyr did not want anyone to think he was hiding the girl for some other reason. Possibly, he could talk is way out of it, telling them she was merely an addition to his bedroom… _if_ he had been only a bachelor.

Unfortunately, everyone knew Petyr was engaged to Myranda and hiding a Stark girl, even as a mistress, did not look good. Since arriving in Kings Landing, Petyr had not heard anything about Sansa from his spies in the city or within certain circles. No one was talking about her until after their outing at the gallery and park. So, Myranda surprisingly had not said a word, and that gave him pause. Myranda might have another trifle up her lace sleeve, and Petyr needed to be careful.

Petyr finished off the last of his brandy and took a deep breath. Yes, this was the right course, he told himself. He would play Myranda for the fool she was in this slight. Kings Landing was not the Eyrie commanded by Lysa, far away in the countryside. These people were not to be trifled with. They seized on any opportunity to oust someone they did not like and Petyr was handing it to them on a gilded platter. He was loathed for his quick rise to wealth and power. His low birth was a sore spot for any titled gentleman from an old family, but they continued to do business with him and line their pockets with gold.

 _Gold_.

That was the language all men spoke fluently. Gold gave men power. Gold gave him the position and ability to enter the domain of the privileged. Petyr had made them, especially Joffrey, very wealthy, and that was the only reason they tolerated him within their circles.

Petyr played the fop with the ladies and the non-threatening but shrewd businessman with the gentlemen. In return, he was allowed to mingle and pretend to be half as good as them. He whored, gambled and lived up to his notorious reputation, but all of that was fodder as they never took him seriously. He was gossiped about and then brushed aside just as quick.

Even the idea of marrying a Royce wasn’t as preposterous as Petyr once thought it would. Myranda’s reputation was so dissolute, that marriage to a man like him seemed somewhat logical – to the gentlemen at least. It was well known that Royce had tried unsuccessfully to marry her off too many times. Petyr stepped outside the box society drew for him from time to time, testing the waters, but now that containment was demolished. This time, the ton would not turn a blind eye to his lecherous ways. Marrying Myranda was one thing, insulting her family name with a Stark was something else.

The game he was playing was precarious, and if the pieces did not move where he wanted them to, it could spell disaster not only for him but Sansa. Petyr was gambling with the notion of how the ton perceived his actions, but more importantly, the king would handle it. Joffrey would likely find the idea that Baelish, of all people, made Sansa a whore, rather entertaining. His new wife and the Tyrell family, however, never did like him and would have never agreed with awarding him title and land for his services.

Granted, not one noble wanted Harrenhal, and it was a bit of an empty gesture knowing the cost it would take to keep it. It was merely a grant to have Petyr preside over the management and profits of the Riverlands and nothing more. It was all about money.

Joffrey didn’t want Sansa dead, she served as an example of what happened to those who defied him and his family’s legacy and rule. Not executing the last Stark kept the north under control at the time. The boy-king was shrewd enough to know, that forcing the girl to recant publicly would soil her in the eyes of her own people.

Roose Bolton was granted Winterfell as warden, given he could control the northerners. Rumors of his cruelty, especially that of his son was well known across the land. Only months ago, did Joffrey finally reward Bolton with Ned Stark’s dukedom.

Sansa, gratefully was unaware. Petyr certainly did not wish to tell her such news and cause her more pain. It was something that couldn’t be changed for now. In time, Petyr’s machinations would cover many injustices across the country. Everything had been planned to the tiniest detail, and in a few more years, it would be ready.

Petyr knew, striking in anger or too early was never beneficial. It was a long game he was playing, covered under so many layers over the years, it seemed as nothing to the rest of the ton. They only saw a greedy and ambitious man collecting gold and titles.

Sansa would bring that to a halt in a few days, Petyr smiled. The king would make sure of it. Joffrey would halt the marquess’ rise by denying the marriage he wanted so badly to gain a respectable name.

Lord Royce had once asked after Jon Arryn died if Petyr was interested in marrying Lysa. It seemed the nobles were quite worried Petyr would marry the duchess and take control as his frequent visits to the Vale didn’t go unnoticed.

However, marrying a Royce kept him close to Lysa, and she was a powerful woman, even as Dowager Duchess to Robert. Petyr had no interest in Lysa at all. It was Robert that he was holding an attachement. A Royce marriage meant that Petyr would have lands and titles in the Vale and stay close to his adopted nephew, the duke. A formidable ally and one that was easily controlled.

No one objected to his engagement to Myranda, because it did not seem to give Petyr any real power other than to solidify his future heirs. Royce was not powerful, influential, or even wealthy. It was not a threat at all. Just an old name and a daughter with a questionable reputation. No one in the ton would be vying for an invitation to Harrenhal nor would Lord and Lady Baelish be the toasted couple in society.

As much as Joffrey had not cared about Sansa’s whereabouts for the past few years, he would never have suspected the girl would turn up in Kings Landing, let alone their social circles. The girl was discarded and forgotten. A treachery snuffed out and ignored. She had not done anything since her family’s death to warrant suspicion or retaliation. She had been pardoned, but it was made clear that she was not welcome and best that she just fade away into obscurity.

Now, the king would have to make a decision. It would be unacceptable to keep a woman of Sansa’s age as a ward as it was an insult to the Royce name. However, they could not afford to punish Petyr too severely for such a breach of etiquette. They needed him whether they liked it or not. Petyr made sure after all these years of bowing, lying, hard business tactics that he filled their pockets, making him indispensable.

Petyr would play up the foppish ignorance of his actions while Joffrey punished him with the denial of marriage and respect. Joffrey, he hoped, would live up to his arrogant and spiteful self, and degrade Petyr by making him marry the girl that would give his children nothing to aspire to. Fo no reputable family would marry their daughter to a son of Baelish and that of a Stark.

It would be a petty punishment, but one they believed wounded Petyr significantly as a social climber. Petyr and Sansa would be reviled in society and ostracized, but he could continue with business, as usual, making them money. Forcing him to marry his mistress, would keep him where they wanted him and the girl, once again, out of sight and mind.

Petyr looked at his watch again and tapped his fingers impatiently. He knew the king and queen were not attending the opera tonight due to the subject matter. Joffrey wouldn’t degrade himself to sit through a northern love story. However, the ton, more interested in gossip, would still gather in crowds.

Petyr wagered most would consider the subject matter vulgar, but it would not deter them from an evening of entertainment. Many played cards and chattered all through the performance only quieting down to hear the soprano’s aria, the showpiece, and then return to their gossip. It was something Petyr loathed from the peerage. They did not care nor respect the beautiful art before them. The theatre was only a place to see and be seen.

Walking to the foyer, Petyr glanced up the stairs and wondered what was taking so long. They were going to be late. He was usually fashionably late for everything and did not care much about it. Tonight, however, Petyr wanted enough time to mingle a bit and make sure they were seen as much as possible before the curtain rose. Most of all, he wished to Sansa to experience her first opera in all its glory.

He watched with pleasure as Sansa’s eyes lit up at the box from Madame Berkins. He wondered if this was what Sansa was like this during her first season before the rebellion and all the horrors happened to her. She lifted and pressed the dress to her bosom, taking it all in. It was the height of fashion, and she knew it. Sansa hugged him fiercely, landing a sweet kiss on his cheek before running upstairs to change after an early supper. Petyr made it clear to the seamstress precisely what he wanted. His little witch would shine and catch the eye of every single person tonight.

Petyr turned to the mirror above the side table that held his cloak and purse. He tuffed his lace cravat and straightened the ivory waistcoat brocaded with hints of green, silver and gold. Tonight he would look his part of the dandy lord with his emerald pin at his throat, rings, gold-topped walking cane, and flowing cloak. The woman on his arm tonight would be the real jewel, he smiled, tucking the gold watch into his waistcoat pocket. Catching movement on the candlelit stairs in the mirror, Petyr smiled.

Turning around, ready with a smart comment about how long Sansa kept him waiting, the words suddenly died on his tongue. The girl moved down the stairs with the grace of an angel as Petyr’s eyes took in the sight before him. Sansa was more than beautiful, she was a vision and would put Aphrodite herself to shame.

The emerald green silk contrasted the fire of her hair, and Petyr knew the color would suit her. Delicate black lace shimmered with strands of silver that draped elegantly over the many folds of her skirt. Silver brocade and lace, trimmed along her bosom and sleeves offsetting her porcelain skin.

The maid had pulled Sana’s auburn tresses up into curled knots, letting tendrils cascade down the side that framed her face beautifully. A black and emerald green feathered adornment was placed in her hair above the ear where a little jewel glittered in the low light. She was the most beautiful creature Petyr had ever seen as she came to stand before him with a hint of a smile.

Her chest was heaving from either nerves or excitement; Petyr couldn’t be sure. Her blue eyes twinkled, waiting for his approval. Petyr smirked and walked around the girl studying her with mock seriousness.

“Do I look alright?” she asked nervously.

“Hmm, I don’t know,” he circled the beauty, teasing her. “Something isn’t right.”

“Oh?” she pondered, looking alarmed at her maid on the stairs, wondering what was amiss. “I have my gloves, cloak…” she whispered to herself and then found the mirror and checked her dress and hair trying to see what he found wrong.

Petyr grinned and walked up until he could see his reflection behind her in the mirror.

“I think I know what it is,” he smiled, bringing his gloved hands in front of her collarbone. The emeralds shimmered in the candlelight as he draped the delicate silver necklace around her neck.

Sansa’s eyes were a daze as he fastened it, letting the scrolled chain hang elegantly along her collar. Her trembling hand touched the jeweled necklace. Petyr knew she had never owned anything so fine as he handed her matching ear bobs.

“It’s too much,” she breathed, and it answered his question.

“It’s not nearly enough,” he replied, resting his hands on her shoulders gazing at her reflection.

Their eyes caught each other in the mirror as she clipped the little jewels to each ear. Sansa closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Are you sure this a good idea?” she winced. Petyr knew her too well.

“No,” he answered truthfully as her eyes popped open to gaze at him. “but I don’t care. We’re going to enjoy ourselves this evening.”

“Myranda hasn’t changed her mind?” Sansa asked, and Petyr could hear the fear in her voice as she turned to face him.

“She said she had a terrible headache this afternoon when I called on her,” he said adding a hint of disappointment, as false as it was.

“Oh,” she replied in kind. “I just fear that it, well, being only you and I, that… I don’t want to start gossip.”

Petyr chuckled lightly, “Sweetling, there’s always gossip about someone. Tonight it will be us, and tomorrow it will be someone else. Myranda knows full well where we’re going.”

He knew it was a lie but didn’t want to scare the girl. Petyr donned his cloak walking to the door before noticing she had not followed. The footman opened the door as Sansa stalled for a moment, wringing her hands.

“Don’t tell me I bought the dress and jewels for nothing,” Petyr teased hoping to lighten her mood.

Sansa glanced in the mirror once more, taking a deep breath. Petyr was actually surprised she could breathe at all in that dress. The maid had cinched her waist tight, forcing her breasts up for all the men to see.

Petyr draped her cloak around her shoulders, fastening the clasp. Patting her arms reassuringly, he smiled and waited for the girl to make her decision even though he knew she could have said no at any time before dressing tonight.

Finally, Sansa took his arm, and Petyr admired her bravery. She was about to walk into the lion’s den yet Sansa was no timid, wide-eyed deer. She was stronger than she knew. In the coming days, it would be more than tested.

The ride was smooth and relatively quiet. Sansa held a brave face, but Petyr knew she was nervous. This wasn’t a walk in the park or the gallery. All of high society would be in this one building tonight. She would be a fool to think everyone wouldn’t be watching and talking about her.

The footman opened the door as Petyr stepped out, holding out his hand. As Sansa took it, he felt a tiny tremble as she stepped out in front of the opera house. There was a slight chill in the air tonight, and Petyr wasn’t sure if she was cold, or her nerves were getting to her. He took her arm and guided her up the stone steps to the grand foyer. Once inside, footmen took their cloaks when all eyes came upon them.

Petyr did not have to look around to know Sansa was the most beautiful woman in the room. Every male eye found her like an arrow to the target. Every lady stared, frowned, or rose their fan to disguise the gossip they spoke.

It was a packed house tonight, and Petyr thought it could not have been more perfect. Sansa clutched his arm tightly as he began walking towards men he knew well from gambling. The curtain would rise in ten minutes ,however the show started the moment they walked in the door.

Petyr guided her and played the part he knew inside and out. He nodded to the gentleman and smiled at ladies, all the while acting as if nothing were wrong in the world. It was just another night, another ball, another dinner, with a new woman on his arm.

“Lady Dayne, you look ravishing tonight,” he smiled and winked passing the older couple. “Roger, be careful, I just may steal your wife next.” Luckily, Lord Dayne liked Petyr as the man laughed heartily.

Petyr glanced to Sansa, and smartly she had painted a small smile on her face and followed him silently.

“Osgrey,” he nodded, and the bald man returned the greeting. “You still owe me three-hundred guineas from cards in August.”

Suddenly, a boisterous voice came to his side.

“Baelish, knew it was you!” the portly fellow laughed. “No man can get away with such fancy clothes as you and doubt his manhood.”

“Manderly, I haven’t seen you in ages. How is the weather in White Harbor?” Petyr smiled.

“Cold as a witch’s tit this time of year,” the man snickered and then halted looking at the young woman on Petyr’s arm. “Good heavens, that’s not Ned’s girl, is it?”

He felt Sansa clasp his arm in anxiety and Petyr patted her hand gently. “Lady Sansa, have you met Lord Manderly?” he asked pleasantly.

“A long time ago, I believe. I could not have been more than ten years old,” Sansa smiled shyly.

Manderly bowed, kissing her hand. “Oh my dear, I don’t expect you to remember an old, foul-mouthed man like me,” he said, taking her in from head to toe and smiled to Petyr. “Gads, it queer. I would have bet my last farthing that it was Catelyn.”

Sansa’s smile fell, and the man immediately apologized. “I’m sorry, my dear, I seem to have forgotten myself. When you get to be my age, time isn’t what it used to be.”

“It’s alright, my lord,” she smiled again, sweetly. “It’s in the past now.”

“Well,” the man jested, trying to change the topic. “Don’t let Petyr here fool you. There’s a good man in him somewhere. I gather the right woman will sort him out. Petyr, if you have any sense, and you’re a smart man mind you, you’d marry this girl first thing tomorrow.”

Sansa’s blushed six shades of red, for Manderly said it loud enough for several people to hear.

“As lovely as that would be, Sansa is actually my ward,” Petyr educated the man.

“Ward?” Manderly asked in confusion. “Last I heard Lysa had sent her to her brother in Riverrun.”

“And, good ole’ Edmure is having some trouble with gambling and the drink,” Petyr mused. “It wasn’t a safe environment for her.”

“Ah, I see. The Tully’s never could hold their drink,” the man sighed. “Strange, considering their sigil is damned fish. You think they’d take to it like water! Haha!”

Sansa smiled, keeping her perfect air of graciousness as Petyr chuckled at the old man’s jokes.

“Now, the bird has swooped down and taken this lovely girl to roost,” Manderly laughed. “Sorry, my dear. Just men’s rubbish. Anyone would be a fool to think you were any of his other mistresses.”

Petyr winced internally while the girl’s posture straightened a little. Sansa chided him a few times about his unsavory reputation and associations.

“To use your words, a lady has sorted me out, and I plan to marry her very soon, in fact,” Petyr offered kindly, feeling Sansa stiffened a bit at his words.

Manderly looked to Sansa with surprise, “But you said Lady Sansa was your ward? I suppose it isn’t uncommon for a man to take a ward as a wife, however, the impression you gave me…”

“ _Lady Myranda_ , Lord Royce’s daughter,” he interrupted.

“Royce?” Manderly’s eyebrows shot up. “You marry a Royce?” The man smirked knowingly and muttered under his voice yet both Petyr and Sansa heard him clearly. “ _Didn’t think the man would ever find that girl a husband._ ”

Sansa glanced at Petyr at the old man’s slight, but Petyr brushed it off. It’s what he hoped everyone thought.

“Come now, Manderly, there’s an art to buying a wife,” Petyr teased, and the man howled in laughter. “Would any good lady of breeding really have a man such as myself if not for my money?”

“I’ll drink to that!” Manderly chortled slurping his wine. “That’s what they all want, don’t they? Title, money, and if they’re lucky a handsome man to bed. Pardon me again, my lady. Your father would have had my head for speaking so distastefully in the presence of his daughter. You must be pleased you don’t have to marry some wretched, old man such as myself. You have a young, handsome benefactor that will keep you in comfort. That is if your new bride doesn’t mind.”

“I’m hardly young or gifted with good looks, Manderly,” Petyr chuckled. “Thank you all the same.”

“You’re younger than me, man, by decades!” the portly lord laughed again. “If I were your age, I’d steal this girl away and marry her.”

“I’m flattered, my lord,” Sansa smiled at the old man.

“No, my dear, it is I that am honored,” Manderly said retaking her hand and whispered in her ear. “Be careful of this lot, they’ll tear you to pieces if given a chance. Lord Petyr will take good care of you, I’m sure of it. He’s not such a bad fellow.”

Sansa blushed again as they said their goodbyes and Petyr walked her up the grand staircase to the balcony. Everyone was making their way into the auditorium, but the gossip never stopped, not for a second. Petyr and Sansa could hear the whispers and see the frowns and stares.

 

 _He said she’s his ward_.

 _I don’t believe it_ …

 _Such an insult to Lord Royce and his daughter_.

_He’s really gone too far this time!_

_A Stark, a traitor’s daughter… she should be escorted out_.

_Of course, she’s his mistress, what else is she good for?_

 

To her credit, Sansa held her head high, but Petyr could tell she was close to breaking. Gratefully, they entered his box and when the servant closed the door, Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. Petyr knew she was hurt by their words. They meant for them to hear every syllable.

Petyr tilted her chin in the shadows of the heavy draperies of his box and smiled, “The worst is done. Now we can enjoy the performance.”

“Would it have been like this had Myranda joined us?” she asked with a small hiccup.

“I don’t know. Perhaps,” Petyr lied smoothly. Had the three of them arrived together, Myranda most likely would have fluttered to several ladies to chat. Who knows whether she would have diffused or escalated the gossip and hate. Petyr was betting on the latter.

 

_He insisted she come along._

_I told him, once we’re married…_

_She will not live under my roof!_

 

Petyr couldn’t wait to be rid of Myranda and the whole mess. He could conduct most of his business from Gulltown and Harrenhal if necessary. The bulk of his people in Kings Landing had been in place for a few years. It was only a matter of time now before his plans would come to fruition.

He kissed Sansa’s cheek in the shadows but desperately wanted to press her against the wall and plunder her sweet mouth, but he held himself in check. Petyr had to be patient. Instead, he saw the champagne chilling next to their chairs he had ordered and poured a glass handing it to Sansa.

“Here, it will take the edge off,” he grinned.

She took it gratefully and did not bother with a ladylike sip. The girl downed it quickly as if it were liquid courage and held the glass out to him, silently asking for him to fill it again. Petyr topped off the glass but held his tongue.

Sansa didn’t think he noticed, but she was drinking more often than he cared for and it worried him. When he entered his study that day to find her with a glass of brandy early in the afternoon, he started watching a little more intently. At Harrenhal, Sansa would have one or two glasses of wine at dinner and occasionally only a sherry some nights in the library. Since arriving at Kings Landing, she was partaking when she did not think he was looking.

“Come, we have the best seats in the house,” he offered her the plush chair next to the balcony.

Sansa eyed it warily because it put her in full view of everyone in the theatre.

“I’d rather take this seat, if it’s alright,” pointing to the one inside and closer to the draperies.

“You have a better view of the stage from here, sweetling,” he smiled. “Don’t you want to see everything?”

The girl fidgeted with the glass in her hand as her eyes flicked around to the onlookers. Petyr could tell she was conflicted. Sansa did want to experience it all but also wanted to hide from view. Reluctantly, she took the seat he offered and sat down, avoiding the stares from the crowd.

Petyr poured himself a glass and stood next to her, observing their surroundings. He was telling the truth, she would have a better view, but he also wanted everyone to see her and seethe with anger and jealousy. He chuckled, drinking his champagne and Sansa stared at him curiously as to what was so humorous.

“They are so pathetic, sweetling,” he said glancing around the auditorium. “Look at them. Nothing better to do than dress up, gossip, gamble, and drink themselves to death.”

Sansa followed his line of sight to the ladies flirting with handsome young men in Fop’s Alley near the orchestra and those same men peacocking for any lady to notice them. Powdered faces with heavy rouge, ornate jewels, dresses covered in ribbons and bows, cigar smoke, loud chattering – it was all too ridiculous. Petyr had a mind to buy out a night just so he could have peace and quiet during the opera.

His eyes scanned the balcony and came to a dead stop at a box across the way. Their eyes locked and Petyr bowed gracefully as he heard Sansa gasp in horror. Lysa, with her son Robert and Lady Waynwood sat in the box opposite them and did not return the gesture. Robert waved enthusiastically at his beloved uncle and didn’t seem to recognize Sansa, but Lysa did.

 _Fuck_.

Petyr thought Lysa was going to stay at the Vale this winter but apparently had changed her mind when he politely refused her invitation. She knew of his impending marriage to Myranda Royce yet it didn’t stop her flirtations as if the marriage was only a ruse to be near her. Obviously, Lysa wasn’t the only one that could believe such a thing. However, her presence could definitely cause severe problems. Petyr would have to re-calculate quickly.

“Petyr?” her frightened voice asked.

“Do nothing but nod in greeting,” he ordered quietly, not tearing his eyes away from the angry duchess.

Sansa did as he instructed with a smile and returned her gaze to the heavy velvet curtain that had yet to rise. Thankfully, the composer took the stage as the audience finally acknowledged the man’s presence and clapped politely taking their seats.

Candles were extinguished throughout the floor and balcony as the prelude began with strings in a somber disquiet. Soft woodwinds echoed the sadness of the story in minor key when suddenly the entire orchestra bellowed in forte and then descended quickly into pianissimo. The music was vastly different than that of previous and more famous composers. Sweeping violins seeped with heartache and longing and not a note had yet been sung.

Petyr glanced at Sansa, and she was captivated by the music letting every note fill her senses. She was a child given a sweet for the first time in her life, and Petyr couldn’t stop staring at her. The chatter had died down considerably, and Petyr hoped it would last, but it was not meant to be.

“Whore of Harrenhal!” a female voice yelled. Both Petyr and Sansa looked out into the darkness in complete shock.

Even for him, this was a first. Never in all his years, and as many true harlots he brought to the theatre, had someone shouted such vulgarity. He was certainly deserving of it, but not Sansa. Petyr knew she would be subjected to whispers and cruel gossip, but he honestly did not expect this. Her spine stiffened, and he could see the look on her face as she stared blankly at the orchestra.

“Traitor’s daughter!” a male voice rang out and immediately whispers cut across the darkened theatre.

Sansa made a move to stand when Petyr clamped his hand on hers pinning it to the armrest of her chair. Her tiny hand trembled, and he could see the tears threatening to spill. He knew it had to happen, but right now at this moment, Petyr felt a terrible regret for what he was putting her through.

“No,” he whispered, holding her hand firmly. “Do _not_ give them the satisfaction.”

He moved his chair back just enough to sit directly beside Sansa, never letting her hand go in his gloved one.

“Ignore them, sweetling. You are here with me,” Petyr added kindly. “We are above such vulgarity and spite. They hate us because we do not bow or cower to them.”

Petyr clasped her small and feminine hand in his, letting his thumb rub a comforting circle. Sansa looked at their joined hands and then those eyes, filled with so many lingering questions, caught his. Petyr could not look away if he tried. The music rose and rose as the crescendo matched the intensity between them. There was something in Sansa’s eyes that transfixed him, something so pure and lovely.

The flutes and violins drifted from its high point as the curtain softly opened when the last of the woodwinds flowed with an ominous foreboding. The voice of a young sailor began the opera with the words _” – wild Northern maid…”_ and Sansa’s head turned abruptly to the stage not withdrawing her hand from Petyr’s.

The first act told of how Isolde was on her way to marry King Marke, transported by ship helmed by Tristan, the King’s nephew, and trusted knight. Isolde reminisces of how she first met  and fell for the handsome knight. She found a stranger, mortally wounded, and used her healing powers to restore him.

Realizing the stranger was the man that had slain her previous betrothed, Isolde threatens to kill him, but his eyes pierced her heart and demand that he depart, never to return. Now, she was furious at his betrayal in marrying her to his uncle, the king. Isolde demands that they drink to atonement, a poison meant to kill them both for the northern girl would rather die than marry the older king. They drink, but instead of poison, her handmaiden accidentally gives them a love potion instead.

The story unfolded in the second act of how the lovers met at night, deceiving the king. Isolde’s handmaiden warns the beautiful, young queen that one of the king’s knights has seen her and Tristan exchange amorous glances. The maiden goes to keep watch as the lovers declare their passion for each other. Tristan decries the realm of daylight is false, unreal and keeps them apart. It is only in the night, he claims, that they can indeed be together and only in the long night of death can they be eternally united.

Petyr watched Sansa more than the performers below on the stage. He didn’t need to know what was happening for he saw it all in her eyes, the way her breath hitched, and occasionally her fingers would tighten in his. He was entranced in this girl and how every note, every word sung affected her. Not once did her eyes leave that stage and Petyr wondered if she knew he watched her the entire time.

The lovers deceived by their friend are revealed in each other’s arms as the king discovers their treachery. The older man, broken-hearted at the betrayal of his wife and nephew asks why. Tristan tells Marke he cannot explain it, that he could never understand the depth of feeling between him and Isolde. Hurt by the betrayal of his friend, Tristan duels the man only to be once again mortally wounded and sent home, banished and alone.

Petyr could see that a few lords and their ladies had left muttering words of ‘filth’ and ‘rubbish’. A southern king and young knight in love and fighting over a northern girl, apparently was too much for them, he smirked. A girl with healing powers that used potions and poisons, and yet men were besotted by her.

Sansa never once glanced away from the performance. She was completely engrossed and captivated by the story and music as Petyr found himself gazing at her again. Her chest heaved as the third and final act began, for she knew exactly where the story was headed.

Tristan dying in his home asks a shepherd if he sees the ship that will carry Isolde to him, for she is the only one that can save him with her powers. A mournful tune sounds as the hero falls to despair that his lover is lost to him. Lamenting his fate, his rails against his desires and the love potion, exhausting himself and collapses once again.

Sansa’s eyes were brimming with tears as she watched intently as if feeling all of the character’s pain. The gentle pipe of the shepherd sounded, signaling the arrival of Isolde’s ship as she has come, at last, to save her love. However, it is too late as Tristan dies in her arms.

The auditorium became silent as the grave when the long-awaited aria finally began. The soprano sang with the conviction that her love had risen to be with her once more and forever.

 _How softly and gently_ _he smiles,_ _how sweetly_ _his eyes open -_ _Can you see, my friends,_ _do you not see it?_

Petyr glanced at his sweetling when her breath hitched, and those tender tears streamed down her face. Her pale bosom heaved, constricted by her corseted gown. The girl tried so very hard not let the sob, that threatened to break forth, have its way. The music swelled and lifted her emotions to the rafters and back. Petyr drew his silk handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her in silence. She took it without a single word nor did her eyes tear away from the romantic “Liebestod.”

She dabbed her eyes, and all Petyr wanted to do was kiss those tears away. Sansa held the silk to her nose and he heard a slight hiccup as the aria crescendo into an exaltation of Isolde’s lament. Caressing her hand, he brought the soft and delicate skin to his lips, closing his eyes. Petyr heard her sniff and she clutched his gloved hand with such affection, it almost wounded him.

 _Breathe my life away_ _in sweet scents._ _In the heaving swell,_ _in the resounding echoes,_ _in the universal stream_ _of the world-breath -_ _to drown,_ _to founder -_ _unconscious -_ _utmost bliss!_

The soprano lay down on the body of her deceased lover, finally succumbing to death herself. The music drifted down softly, thus ending the performance. Petyr paid no attention to the scattered applause from very few patrons that remained in the audience. He cared not for the death glare from the woman across the balcony. The only thing he could see and feel was the girl that sat next to him, overcome with emotion. Never had Petyr expected the powerful emotions that stirred within – emotions he had refused to acknowledge for years.

One by one candles, sconces and candelabras were lit, bringing the theatre back to life. The girl dabbed her eyes and nose, catching him gazing at her with a knowing yet tender smile.

“I must look a fright,” Sansa hiccupped. Petyr could not have fallen more in love with her than in this moment. She had never been more beautiful or sweet than losing herself to a fabled love story.

“You look beautiful, my dear,” he smiled, finding words a bit difficult.

“I’m afraid I’ve ruined your handkerchief, Petyr,” she sniffed again with the sodden silk at her nose.

Shyly, she avoided his eyes and looked over the balcony at the remains of the people mingling and discussing the opera.

“I think you were right,” she muttered softly.

“Oh?” he grinned, pouring more champagne into their glasses. “What was I right about?”

“They didn’t like it at all,” she guessed correctly, looking over the balcony to the floor below.

Petyr smiled and chanced a look in Lysa’s direction. The woman had not wasted any time. She was practically pulling Robert from his seat as the boy complained and whined. He prayed she would not make her way to his box. By the look of disgust on her face, Petyr was willing to bet on it. That did not mean he could avoid her forever. He would need to speak with the damned woman before Joffrey’s ball.

Sansa gasped and suddenly sat back in her chair, seemingly anxious.

“What it is?” he asked, amused.

“Nothing,” she said too quickly. Petyr could tell easily when she was lying. “I’m just uncomfortable with people staring at me. May I have another glass of champagne?”

“Of course,” he offered her the glass. She took a long drink and hiccupped again. “Don’t drink so fast, the bubbles will make it worse.”

Sansa fingered the glass nervously, and Petyr could see the wheels turning in her mind.

“Is that what they really think of me?” she whispered, avoiding his eyes.

“Yes,” he said plainly. No sense in lying to girl overly aware of herself, he thought.

Sansa touched the emerald necklace and fidgeted in her chair. Taking another sip she looked as if she wanted to escape from this fishbowl.

“Do you really care what _they_ think, sweetling?” Petyr asked curiously. “They, who care nothing for you. They, who are jealous of you in every way.”

Shocked, she turned to him and frowned.

“Why would anyone be jealous of me?” she scoffed.

“Perhaps, because you’re the most beautiful woman here,” a charming voice echoed from the darkened doorway.

Startled, both Petyr and Sansa glanced at the intruder that entered his private box, unannounced and most undoubtedly uninvited.

“Lady Sansa, you look divine tonight,” Harry bowed with a wide grin, and it took every ounce of control Petyr had not to throw the man over the balcony. “I couldn’t tear my eyes away from you all evening.”

Petyr straightened his posture and stood slowly, leaning down to Sansa’s ear. She was bright red, and that delectable bosom rose with her heavy breaths. She must have seen Harry below, that’s why she was nervous before.

“Stay here, my dear. I need to have a word with Sir Harrold,” he whispered sweetly, placing a kiss on her cheek, feeling the heat of her blush.

Irritated, Petyr adjusted his waistcoat and walked over to Harry who was very smug in his appearance. Gestering to the door, both men moved into the now empty corridor. The other patrons had already left to mingle in the foyer, and Petyr hoped they were alone.

 “Sir Harrold, I thought I made myself quite clear the other day,” Petyr said evenly and without a shred of emotion.

“Yes, you did. However, I just had to try. I hear the girl is your ward? I find it odd that you, of all people would be a – _philanthropist_ ,” Harry smiled, leaning against the wall.

“My business or the Lady Sansa is none of your affair,” Petyr said not letting his eyes waver a moment. “If you are only here to court her, you may as well leave. She is not interested in the slightest.”

“She or you? Is she already promised? I doubt that considering her station,” Harry grinned and Petyr wondered what game this boy was playing. The city was filled with beautiful and willing women, why was he here? She had already refused him.

Petyr folded his arms and studied the boy for a moment. “Ah, now I see. You come, after such attempts of wooing her failed, knowing now she is my ward. It did not take you long, I must say. I won’t pretend you are ignorant as to her parentage.”

“Come now Baelish, we know you’re about to marry the Royce girl. It’s no secret from the Vale about Lady Sansa’s reputation. I thought you might wish to spare your bride the insult in keeping her in your household,” Harry smirked knowingly.

“Obviously, you haven’t spoken with my future wife in some time, for she doesn’t find the situation disagreeable at all,” Petyr chuckled holding on to his confidence.

“Really? I _do_ find that surprising. I’ve known Myranda all her life. We grew up together,” Harry mused relaxing into his confidence, and Petyr waited patiently for the boy’s motives. “She wasn’t too fond of – _your ward_ when she arrived at the Eyrie. I find it so strange that a man, such as yourself, would take responsibility for such an unwanted northern girl. Even her own family doesn’t want her.”

“What is your interest in her? Obviously, you’re here for a reason, and it isn’t love at first sight,” Petyr smirked in suspicion.

“Well, with you as her benefactor and your upcoming marriage, I rather thought you might want to find the girl a suitable husband?” Harry chuckled mischievously.

“Now we’re getting to the truth,” Petyr said, his face cold as stone. “A girl with no title but a wealthy patron is quite the prize, not to mention her beauty. Tired of the old, widowed countesses and baronesses with sagging breasts and pungent quims?”

 _That_ wiped the grin off the boy’s face and Petyr was thrilled.

“It must be tiring work for such a small sum they give you to gamble away,” Petyr said smoothly knowing he hit a nerve.

“How long will you be in favor now that everyone knows you have the Stark girl in your house?” Harry held his cards close but Petyr grinned. The blonde was a terrible gambler. “I see Myranda did not accompany you tonight. How long until you are completely disgraced?”

“So this is blackmail,” Petyr chuckled. “I pay you a handsome dowry for the lady, and you save my foundering reputation? Is this the game you came here to play?”

The boy fidgeted for a moment, but it was enough for Petyr to see his hand.

“You say you know my bride?” Petyr asked simply. “Not as well as I. In fact, she is quite a fantastic fuck, isn’t she? Did you know she fancies women as much as men? Why would I marry off my delicious ward when my wife and I can share her every night? I think you forget who I am, Harry. You can’t blackmail a man that already has the worst reputation in Kings Landing. As far as Lord Royce, he doesn’t care. He’s happy someone has finally agreed to marry his daughter, whom we both know is not virtuous by any means. I get a respectable name and children, and Royce becomes wealthier than he’s ever been. My dear boy, the first rule is to know your opponent before you ever attempt to play against him.”

Harry stood and seemed to collect his thoughts and Petyr had to refrain from laughter. Oh, these young men really didn’t know what they were getting into. A shallow plan based on very little information yet they still felt it more than enough to collect their winnings. Perhaps a man with a reputation to lose would be an easy target, but Harry indeed was an idiot for coming here tonight.

“It will be an interesting conversation tomorrow when I go to see my childhood friend, along with her father… _and Her Grace_ ,” Harry threatened and seemed to gather his wits.

“Go right ahead, Harry. Ask her,” Petyr goaded. “It is no secret among the ton as to why we are marrying each other. Which makes you, funny enough, the last to know. Do you think she’ll give up Harrenhal, my wealth and titles to play along with you? And before you quip about my age, at least I do not have to sell my services to any lady. In fact, I do recall Myranda mentioning you lacked underneath your small clothes. As far as the king, let’s see whose word weighs more in gold. The Stark girl is nothing to him. Do you really think he will care that I’ve made her my mistress? If I was attempting to marry her myself, you might have had a bargaining chip.”

Harry smiled, and Petyr knew he was about to play his last card.

“Do you really expect me to believe that lovely, innocent girl is fucking you?” Harry quipped sarcastically. “I would bet my life; she is a virgin.”

“Ah, quite the loss. How would you like to be buried?” Petyr laughed heartily as he moved to the doorway. “Too bad you’ll never know the rapture of her milky white thighs wrapped around your waist. I do believe you told me just moments before that she had quite the reputation in the Vale. Yet, now you’re defending her honor? Oh Harry, aren’t there more young girls in the city to bear your growing number of bastards?”

The boy looked perplexed and wasn’t leaving. Sir Harrold paced a bit as if trying to remember something and Petyr had the sickening feeling the boy wasn’t here of his own accord, not entirely, and then he smiled. So, Harrold did have one more card up his sleeve after all.

“As I said before, why would a man like you take a Stark as your ward?” Harry asked smugly, and Petyr’s stomach knotted a bit. “You, who have had many young women, why her? Why your ward if not just use her as a whore and be done with it? No one would think less of you, for that’s all she is.”

Petyr wanted nothing more than to kill him right here and now but just smiled, hiding his fury.

“Hmm, well, there is no love lost between Edmure Tully and I. He certainly, by his old family honor, wasn’t going to let me take the girl as a mistress, no matter who he father was,” he jested. Edmure wouldn’t say a damn word to anyone for Petyr paid him well, and Lysa’s anger would be no surprise. It was clear to anyone at the Eyrie that she detested her niece and fancied Petyr for a long time.

Harrold grinned, and before Petyr could say a word, it was too late.

“Or could it be that no one really knows how you fancied the late Duchess of Winterfell and that her daughter is practically a perfect image of her.  Speaking of childhood friends, Hoster Tully fostered you did he not?” Harry smirked and toyed with his cigar, sniffing it as if he had won something.

“How do you think I knew Lysa so well? It’s no secret,” Petyr said flippantly.

“Oh, but your affections towards, Catelyn, that isn’t well known, is it?” the boy grinned in satisfaction. He knew he hit the motherload, and there was only one person he could have received such information.

Petyr didn’t bother to deny it; he knew Harrold knew too much. He walked right into it, in his over-confidence.

“Quite in love with her, is what I’ve been told,” Harrold japed as he circled Petyr like prey. “How would the king like to know about his faithful servant, whom he has bestowed such title and power… that this man was in love with the traitor’s wife and now has taken the daughter into his home out of a sentimental need to protect her? Perhaps, he was in league with the Starks all this time?”

“You forget, Harry,” Petyr said with nonchalance. “The Starks were defeated. A defeat I helped in great detail, I might add.”

“Ah, but you know Joffrey, he’ll forget everything if he _believes_ you favor the girl for reasons other than your bed. It was really quite stupid of you to bring her here, in front of everyone,” Harrold laughed.Petyr had to think quickly to end this before it destroyed everything.

“And why would the king believe you?” Petyr asked skeptically, betting who was really behind this.

“Me? Oh, I have quite a good friend that the king is surely to believe. Someone very powerful,” Harry smiled. Petyr knew who it was without needing to ask. “Someone who knows you very well, Lord Baelish.”

Petyr stayed calm. He knew Hardyng. The lecher wanted money. He wasn’t going to gain title or power through denouncing Petyr to the king. Lysa surely wasn’t going to pay much, he gathered.  He knew Petyr was very wealthy and would pay dearly to keep this quiet. A man that could lose everything was quite the winning hand, and sadly, the boy and _his_ benefactor, who was not the elderly Lady Waynwood, played it well. Now it was time to kill two birds from the Vale.

Petyr sighed and looked down, playing his role.

“So, Hardyng, how much to make this little problem go away? I’m assuming no one else knows, or you wouldn’t be here,” he grimaced.

Harry chuckled at his good fortune, “My, my, my… how the mighty have fallen. Did you not say that you would teach me how to gamble and win? My friend, I don’t need your instruction.”

“So it appears,” Petyr said evenly, and looked around nervously for Harry’s benefit. “Come now, what do you want and let’s settle this.”

“Well, I am only knighted and cannot marry above my station, yet there is no money in the ladies I’m allowed to court. No wealthy father would give his daughter and her inheritance to me, a gambler and philanderer, as you have said,” Harry began confidently. “You were right, I’m tired of old widows and want to… settle down with a comfortable life. I’m sure you can be reasonable, Baelish.”

“I gather you no longer care if Lady Waynwood disapproves of your marrying, not only below your meager class but to that of a traitor with no title or social standing? You won’t be invited to many dinner parties, Harrold,” Petyr smiled sarcastically. He needed to play along a little to be shrewd, as it was his reputation as well. He was a businessman, after all.

“It won’t matter with the money you’re going to pay me, generously of course, for her dowry,” the boy countered back, and Petyr smirked. Now, they were just haggling over price, were they?

“And how much will it cost me, to sweep our little problem under the rug where it belongs?” Petyr asked.

“It certainly isn’t my problem, Baelish,” Harrold laughed. “She is beautiful as I’m quite sure I’ll enjoy fucking her every night while I’m receiving… oh, thirty-thousand guineas? It’s a nice round number, don’t you think? I feel, a man of your means could easily come up with such a sum rather quickly.”

Petyr pretended to think it over, “And where, and when, should this business transaction place?”

“I’m willing to bet a man like you has money stashed someplace for special occasions, and this is a special occasion. Think of it as a quiet wedding where the bans will not be read. A young girl, forever out of your social-climbing agenda,” the blonde grinned. “And if the king were to ever bestow a new and wealthier title on your head, I think a little compensation now and then would be a kind gesture to your new … hmm, what would I be to you? She’s not your daughter, obviously. If you had a daughter, I’m sure you’d give her quite the inheritance.”

“Enough, Harrold,” Petyr sighed in false defeat. “You have your price. Fifty-thousand and let that be the end of it. It’s more than enough for you. Leave me to my new bride and let’s be done with this. Where shall we meet, later tonight? Why don’t I take you to Black’s. We’ll settle it there. You can say you cleaned me out.”

“You have fifty-thousand guineas? Just that easily?” the boy scrutinized.

“Harrold, I have gambled as much before. I am able to retrieve such a sum but don’t get greedy, or it will appear suspicious,” Petyr eyed him with disdain. “If suddenly you have acquired my estate and business earnings, people will wonder where you got it. No one will believe you won that much from me and then we both lose. I want this to be the end of it. Take the damned girl and your money. You’ve bested me, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Harrold lit his cigar and pondered the deal mockingly.

“Fine, fifty-thousand. Tonight,” he grinned, exhaling a ring of smoke.

“Let me take the girl home, and I’ll meet you there with contracts and money in hand,” Petyr grumbled looking at his pocket watch. “Meet me in two hours.”

Harrold shook Petyr’s hand vigorously, laughing to himself in victory.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Baelish. I never knew it would be so easy to become rich,” he smiled. “If you’re not at Black’s in two hours, I’ll be sure to have a most serious conversation with two important ladies of influence.”

Petyr watched the boy walk casually to the stairs and smiled to himself. He knew who was behind this little con artist, and both would be dealt with accordingly. First, he had to get Sansa home and draw up the necessary documents and gold. Petyr walked back in his box where she waited impatiently.

“I was beginning to think you left me here,” she sighed. “What did Sir Harrold want?”

“Oh, your hand in marriage,” he offered lightly and watched her face change from shock to curiosity and then distrust. “For a rather handsome dowry, I might add. Not that he has any feelings for you, in case you were wondering about his true intentions.”

“You’re impossible,” Sansa rolled her eyes. “I don’t like your games.”

“It’s not a game, sweetling,” Petyr sighed. “What do you think we were talking about for so long out here? The opera?”

“But – you – you wouldn’t… would you?”

The fear was real as the muscles in her throat clenched. So, Sasna truly wasn’t interested in the young and handsome Hardyng. How satisfying, Petyr thought to himself.  

“You think I would marry you to such gutter trash, my dear?” he mocked her, feeling a bit upset that she would think that of him. “I do believe I have better taste _and_ judge of character than that buffoon.”

Sansa cracked a half-smile but then her eyes dropped down to her lap where she twisted his handkerchief apprehensively.

“Are you… I mean, do you intend to marry me off? You’ll be a married man soon,” she whispered so softly, he almost did not hear her.

“Do you wish to marry?” Petyr asked curiously.

She chuckled, but there was an underlining sadness as she refused to look at him.

“That buffoon… was probably all I’m going to get,” she smiled, but Petyr couldn’t see her eyes. He knew she couldn’t be serious. Was Sansa desperate enough to take a man like Hardyng? “It doesn’t matter what I want anymore.”

“What do you want, sweetling?” Petyr wondered, tilting her chin up.

Sansa was silent for a long time as she continued to avoid his eyes. She was hiding something, Petyr knew. Whatever it was, she did not want to tell him.

“I want to go home,” she said solemnly and finally looked at him with a smile that broke his heart. “Will you take me home, Petyr?”

Petyr nodded, taking her hand before escorting her out. He avoided the men who wished to speak with him, or more likely wanted to get an eye full of Stark’s daughter on his arm. Thankfully, most of the gossipmongers had left or stayed in their little hate-filled circles speaking behind gloved hands and lacy fans. Briefly, Petyr would glance at Sansa, and he couldn't help but feel gratification in how she held her head high. She was a proud wolf, brave and sure as her family sigil suggested.

Once they were back in the cold carriage, did Sansa finally let her guard down and sigh in relief. She enjoyed the opera, Petyr knew, but it did not come without a price. The ride home was quiet, down the dark streets with faint lamps lighting their way. They passed Black’s, the city’s most affluent and exclusive gentlemen’s club. If not for Petyr, Harrold wouldn’t be allowed to step one foot inside tonight.

Petyr smiled to himself, it was going to a long night. Once, he used to gamble all evening long, take a lover or seduce a man’s wife just for fun as other lords made generous use of the brothel next door. It was not advertised as such, keeping in with the exclusivity and secrecy of its prominent and wealthy patrons. Petyr would know because he owned both which was not advertised as he kept many of his lucrative business dealings in the shadows.

Marcus Black ran the club, as his wife handled the brothel, both paid handsomely to keep Petyr’s name out of it, the silent partner that kept the wheels well-oiled and moving. He knew the man and his wife skimmed off the top, but so much money flowed through every day, Petyr didn’t harp on them about it. The place made him filthy rich, more so than his other endeavors in Westeros. It was also the key to gathering much-needed information. Petyr learned most of what he wanted from drunk lords losing their inheritances at the tables and whispers to whores. The ton had no idea how many pots Petyr had his hands in.

He was brought out of his thoughts when the girl leaned against his shoulder, and Petyr wondered how much champagne she drank while he was haggling with Harrold. One of the emerald earbobs fell off as she nestled more into him with sleepy haze. He pocketed the little jewel and smiled, wrapping a warm arm around her as they were nearly home. Sansa would go to bed, and Petyr would deal with the bothersome blonde.

The soft clapping of hooves against the cobblestone and the beautiful girl snuggled into his side was almost enough to make him drowsy. Petyr wished he could take her away tonight, but he knew it wasn’t possible now. Too many years and gold had been invested in this game. Petyr couldn’t turn away when he was so close.

Her hair was faintly scented and like satin between his fingers as he played with a ringlet that had come loose from its pins. Sansa was so soft nestled against him and wondered if she realized the intimacy of it. Right now, he didn’t care as he relished in the feeling. This is how he wanted it to be. Petyr looked down at her ivory hands and could visualize a gold band on that lovely finger.

All too soon, the carriage stopped in front of his townhouse as Petyr gently nudged her to wake. Her eyes were in dire need of sleep yet a small smile formed on her lips at she blushed at him. Sansa looked so young at this moment, and Petyr could see a daughter in the woman before him. He could see taking a girl with her eyes and perhaps his dark hair to her first ball. He would be an old man by then, but he would enjoy it just as much at taking Sansa to her first opera tonight.

“You’re staring,” she blushed again.

“I am. You are beautiful tonight. Thank you for joining me, my lady,” he smiled and felt his heart lighten when she returned his smile.

There were times when he complimented Sansa and she would have a strange look on her face. Sometimes she would blush prettily and others – he couldn’t place it. Petyr wasn’t sure if his compliments made her feel uncomfortable or if she actually liked them. Perhaps Sansa wasn’t used to getting compliments anymore.

“It’s a shame Myranda missed it,” Sansa finally looked away. “Do you think she would have liked the story?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” he mused. “I think she would have enjoyed mingling more.”

Sansa’s expression changed, cutting him in a way that wasn’t an insult.

“It was a good thing she didn’t go,” she began. Petyr hoped that Sansa had liked that it was only the two of them tonight. “The heckling and gossip would have embarrassed her terribly. I hope Myranda doesn’t hear of it.”

“Do you really care for her happiness so much?” he asked, curious if Sansa was being honest.

“She cares for you, and I don’t want her to have the wrong impression. She’s trying to fix her reputation, to find some happiness, and I think she’s found it with you. I just don’t want to ruin things,” she said sadly. Petyr wanted to tell her the truth but knew he couldn’t. Now wasn’t the time.

“Don’t worry about Myranda and me,” he smirked. “We have this sorted out. It will be alright. That heckling was more about me, not you. They know I don’t play by their rules and love to try and tear me back down to where they think I belong. They are envious, Sansa. They see a strong and beautiful woman like you and can’t stand that you exist. By insulting you, someone who has done nothing to them, they are only showing what they truly are… petty, miserable and bitter old corpses because their own lives are boring and meaningless. You are a reminder of not only what they cannot have but will never be.”

Sansa’s breathing hitched as she stared at him with wide eyes. Dear God, he wanted to kiss her at this moment but held still and let it pass. Clearing his throat, Petyr stepped out and took her hand once more helping her from the carriage. He removed her cloak, handing it to the footman before giving her a little peck on the cheek, bidding her goodnight.

“Where are you going?” she asked when he did not remove his cloak and gloves.

“I’m going to Black’s tonight. I have some business to attend to,” Petyr replied smoothly with a smile.

All the tenderness from her in the carriage disappeared as she frowned.

“You’re going to gamble, you mean,” Sansa huffed, taking off the earbob and then realizing the other was missing from her ear as she scanned the floor in horror.

Petyr chuckled and handed her the emerald and diamond jewel.

“Gambling is a standard trade of gentlemen, sweetling,” he reminded her of who he was. “Especially, considering the kind of business, I’m involved with.”

Was it disappointment he saw in her? Had Sansa assumed they would sit by the fire in the library as they were accustomed to most evenings?

“Don’t stay up late, and no more brandy,” he grinned when his words shocked her knowing that he had been a keen observer.

Sansa couldn’t deny it yet instead of fighting with him, she scowled and marched up the stairs to her room. Petyr wanted to laugh, but it did concern him. She was drinking, more than she should and trying to hide it. Had it been Myranda, he would not have cared but with Sansa… it was not good for her. Alcohol numbed the mind of things it did not want to think on. Petyr had to admit that much of Sansa’s problems were caused by him. Once he got her back to Harrenhal, it would be better, he thought. He needed to get her out of Kings Landing as soon as he could.

Petyr wrote up a contract that would appease Hardyng, awarding him Sansa and the fifty-thousand as bribery. Setting out to the club, Petyr was ready to meet the young man that, who with the confidence of youth, believed he had won quite the prize with a little trickery.

Harry, and all the rest didn’t comprehend who they were dealing with. Petyr won on most occasions and allowed himself to lose only to gain something better. He was willing to wager everything to which many lords thought he was mad or reckless. Petyr made bets and moves that seemed to work against him, as he was using Sansa now, or just to baffle and amuse himself. It was all a part of the game and the illusion he had created. Lord Petyr Baelish was a harmless fop – _a wealthy and talented fop_ in matters of finance, but harmless all the same.

Entering the club, the footmen brought Petyr the whiskey always asked for and found Marcus. The two men conversed quietly in a way that was unassuming to anyone watching. He advised to admit one, Sir Harrold Hardyng and direct him to a private lounge for more important men of the ton. Business was booming this week as many of high society was in the capital for the king’s upcoming ball making Petyr smile. Even if he lost the fifty-thousand, he would triple his profits from this week alone.

The club was filled with father’s and their sons, some Petyr had not seen in months or years. These men frequented gaming hells in and around their estates but were not used to the high stakes of playing at his establishment. Judging by the looks of some, Petyr was certain he was going to make a killing tonight.

The clock struck one, and Petyr frowned as he took his winnings from the last card game to the dismay of Lord Tyrell and his son. Hardyng was late. Petyr detested tardiness in business affairs. It showed a lack of respect and judgment from the other party, and it tended to irritate him. Harry was the one that set the time even though Petyr chose the place. He wanted to get this over with and go home.

Marcus tapped Petyr’s shoulder, signaling him to the blonde that strode over to his table. Hardyng was all pompous with his grin as he sat down next to Petyr.

“Baelish, thank you for inviting me. Her Grace will appreciate your letting me experience the capital during my _short stay_ ,” the boy smiled as Petyr played along.

“Of course, the duchess and I are childhood friends, I could not deny her wishes. Robert is too young, and Lady Waynwood surely would prefer the company of the ladies. I hope she doesn’t feel her _ward_ will be influenced by a man of such ill repute?” Petyr jested making the Tryells laugh.

“It shouldn’t be much of a contest tonight, I do not have the funds of the gentlemen here,” Harry japed with a nod of his head in acknowledgment. “Perhaps a sherry and I’ll observe how rich men win their gold.”

Petyr chuckled at that offering him a chair at their table.

“Then have a whiskey, my boy. Sherry is for the women,” Petyr said, signaling the footman to bring another round of drinks.

“Be careful, Harry, Baelish here, takes no prisoners when gambling,” Loras laughed. “I’ve already lost ten-thousand.”

“You mean _I_ have lost ten-thousand, my son,” Lord Tyrell grumbled looking at his cards.

“No, you’ve lost twenty-five thousand to me in just the last hour, Mace,” Petyr smiled, setting his cards face down watching the old man seethe.

“I’m father to the queen, Baelish, and yet you seek to bankrupt me,” Tyrell frowned as he placed his bet in the center of the table.

“The queen’s father or no, it doesn’t excuse what a terrible player you are. Loras, my boy, pay attention. This is how you win without trying,” Petyr goaded tripling the bet with his gold after taking two cards.

“You’re bluffing, you don’t raise that much taking two cards after a meager first wager,” the man huffed and matched the gold. “I’m calling you out tonight, _finally_.”

Tyrell smirked raising again, waiting to see if Petyr would give away a tell. Laying down a full house. Loras patted his father on the back while Harry congratulated the man on his win. Petyr raised his eyebrows and grinned as he turned over his hand on the table, revealing a straight flush.

“Damnit, man, do you ever lose?” Tyrell complained as Petyr scooped his winnings to his side of the table. “This game from the colonies is for crooks, I tell you. Crooks and thieves.”

“Oh, come on, Tyrell, it is a simple game, but it’s not so much the cards but the players in how you win,” Petyr chuckled. “Harrold, the key is to either figure out what your opponent is holding by their bets, facial expressions, ticks and so forth. You can tell if they hold something significant and fold if you don’t have anything good, or fake your own terrible hand if you know they don’t have anything either.”

“Baelish, your reputation is you never lose,” Tyrell frowned. “Never should have attempted playing you tonight.”

“I occasionally lose, Tyrell, and believe me I wasn’t happy about it,” Petyr laughed heartily looking at Harry next to him. “Sooner or later, I gain it all back plus some.”

“Well, I must bid you gentlemen goodnight, my old bones are aching after such a long journey from Highgarden. Baelish, you’ll have to steal someone else’s money tonight,” the man grumbled as he and his son stood, collecting their personals. “Come along, Loras.”

Petyr and Harry sat quietly until they were relatively alone.

“So how will this work?” the boy asked, anxious for his winnings.

Petyr handed Harry a hefty purse of twenty-thousand of what he initially demanded under the table.

“We will play for a while, and you will win. Simple as that. You will win my fifty-thousand with beginners’ luck and be on your way. The contract to my ward is inside the purse. Decide on the date, and I shall bring her to you. I would suggest that it wait until after his majesty’s ball. Quietly and away from Kings Landing would be the right course of action for both of us. You will be positively wealthy and do as you please as long as it no longer involves me.”

Petyr dealt the cards and made a small wager of one-thousand guineas. Harry was about to lift his heavy purse to the table when Petyr kicked him hard from underneath.

“Ow,” the boy yelped. “What in blazes was that for?”

“Do not show how much money you have, you fool,” Petyr spat quietly. Harry, and the other gentlemen here hadn’t a clue that Petyr owned this club and this was all a ruse. “You’ll be accused of stealing, a man of your means. Put two thousand on the table and nothing more. If they see that purse, they’ll be wondering where you got it.”

Frowning, the boy sifted through the gold coins and paper notes from the purse hiding it inside his coat. Fifty-thousand was too high a sum in just gold and added enough banknotes to even it out. Petyr always kept money hidden away in many places, but easiest was here where it flowed so heavily from night to night. Harry, did, however, pull out the document in regards to Sansa to see if it was legitimate, as Petyr believed he would, and then quickly tucked it away.

The men played quietly as Harry built his winnings steadily. Luckily, it was very late as many men had already left for the night, teasing Petyr that he was finally losing for once. Petyr japed and said he would win it back soon and hoped they would go and not stay to watch the game unfold into the wee hours of the morning. Petyr was yawning already and could see this last hand would seal the deal. It was practically three, and he needed to finish this.

“Well, Sir Harrold, it seems that at last, I have met my match,” Petyr grinned, pocketing the remainder of his coins from the table. “It’s quite late, and I’m not the young man I used to be. Be wary of those men left, they will not be so kind in letting you leave with such a lucky purse. I would recommend retiring for the night and certainly don’t let it sit unwatched if you take a whore to bed next door. She’ll suck you and your cock dry.”

Harry stood and held his hand out to Petyr.

“It was a pleasure playing you tonight, Baelish,” the boy grinned. “I hope I may always be so lucky. Lady Waynwood and the duchess will be pleased to know I didn’t lose my inheritance.”

Petyr took his hand and smirked, “The pleasure is all yours.”

“I’ll be sure to call on you and your pretty ward… _after_ the king’s ball, as you suggested,” Harry said smugly, and Petyr let him have his moment of victory.

Petyr smiled and nodded curtly before explicitly making his exit known to the rest of the gentleman still gambling and drinking. Marcus handed him his cloak and gloves as Petyr gave the man a knowing glance as to the boy. The man nodded in agreement and bid Petyr goodnight.

He saw two gentlemen outside debating on the whether to enter the brothel when Petyr offered a quick goodnight, climbing into his carriage. _Good, let them all see me leave_ , he thought, as the driver took them around the city block slowly and then parked near an alley. An hour passed, when he finally spied Harry, drunk, walking down the street having left Black’s. Petyr ordered his manager to let the boy gamble and drink but kick him out before four and make sure no carriage would be at his disposal. Petyr knew the boy took a cab to get here, since he did not own his own carriage and riding in Lysa’s with her crest would have been ludicrous, even for her.

The streets were empty and the lamps were dying as it would be dawn soon. Even the most die-hard gamblers had left for the night, and now Harrold Hardyng, victorious and arrogant schemer was on his own, just as Petyr had planned it. Petyr exited his carriage, wrapping his cloak around him to hide the white of his shirt and made his way to the street corner under the cover of darkness.

Two ‘thieves,’ in Petyr’s employ, waited patiently as the man in question passed and Petyr gave the order with the nod of his head. It wasn’t long before Harry realized he was being followed and darted down another alley. The man was an idiot, leaving a gentleman’s club all alone with a full purse was a beacon to any thief looking for a quick pay off.

Petyr turned down an adjacent alley and waited in shadow. His men would herd the boy right to him, in a place where not a spec of light nor eye belonging to a creature with less than four legs resided. He heard the boy scrambling down the alley as Harry turned around only to see the men had given up their hunt. Petyr’s men were well paid, loyal, and did not ask questions of their generous employer.

Harry stumbled down the dark alley while Petyr stood still against the cold and filthy brick.

“Fucking bastards, lowlifes… think they can mess with me? I’d show them both,” the boy muttered drunkenly before a hand gripped him tightly and a dagger threatened to slice his throat.

Petyr didn’t say a word and let the cold blade do the talking as the blonde stopped struggling and whimpered like a child.

“Here, take it,” he mumbled, holding a small leather purse and Petyr chuckled darkly. Perhaps a dumb thief might take it and run, but Petyr knew better and disguised his voice.

“You jingle like a man carrying a bag of coins ten times that size, m’lord,” Petyr jested. “Let’s find out.”

Petyr reached inside the boy’s cloak and felt his purse tied and hiding inside Harry’s coat.

“Shall I release you of such a heavy burden?” he laughed, yanking the purse away. “Not very wise to walk alone at night after winning so much at such a wealthy man’s club?”

“You fucking bastard, I’ll find you. You hear me? I’ll kill you,” Harry swore and struggled before Petyr put pressure on the dagger and heard the man curse as the blade cut his skin.

Petyr tutted next to the boy’s ear reverting back to his normal voice, “What did I tell you about knowing your opponent?”

“You!” the boy choked in fear as Petyr wanted him to know that he bested him.

“I know you did not come up with this little scheme on your own, Harry,” he whispered in a deadly tone. “Tell me, and I’ll let you take the money and go.”

The boy didn’t waste any time at all and coughed out her name. Petyr already knew it, but for some reason, he wanted to hear Harry say it. _Confirm it._

“Thank you, my boy,” he said and with a deep swipe, the dagger sliced through the blonde’s throat spilling his blood down onto the gutter. The boy shook as his life drained away. “There are two things you never fuck with, Harrold. A man’s money and his beloved…”

Petyr let the boy drop into a filthy puddle, tucking the purse inside his cloak. He picked up Harry’s smaller one and emptied the few coins into his hand, throwing them down the darkened alley. One would think the boy was chased and then robbed.

Marcus would vouch that Harrold left with huge winnings and very drunk. He would also vouch, not that Petyr would even be suspected in such a terrible murder, that he left long before in his carriage in the view of several well-known patrons. Petyr wiped his dagger clean on the bottom of Harry’s cloak and pocketed it out of sight.

Petyr stared at the dead boy on the ground covered in blood and shook his head. He detested getting his hands dirty, but this had to be done himself. Petyr did not trust anyone else with the money and documents in the purse. It was more an annoyance he had to waste his time on this when he had more important things in play.

Harry brought it on himself, and Petyr felt no remorse for the arrogant and stupid boy. Joffrey’s ball was a day away, and Petyr had one more to deal with – someone far more important, whose death would be questioned and investigated. She was always in his plans to die, but now it would much sooner than he had anticipated. Now, it was just a matter of how.

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tristan & Isolde - by Richard Wagner (German libretto)  
> "Wild IRISH maid" is what the sailor actually sings, but I changed it since I'm not using "irish" but "northern" instead.  
> Black's is a spin on White's, a real gentleman's club in London. Very famous and well known.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter before another massive one... I'm sorry about the wait. I threw out my back and could barely move for days. It was pretty bad. Smut, angst and a spooky prophecy in this chapter. :D

 

 

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She was twirling.

Sansa’s gloved hand pinched her skirts as the faceless man swung her around in circles with the other dancers. Gilded masks covered their faces as they laughed, dressed in their finest. Silks, satins, lace, glittering jewels with sheens of gold and silver seemed to fly around in a whirl.

“Whore of Harrenhal!”

A woman laughed maniacally, yet Sansa could not see where the voice came from. Looking down, her hands were no longer gloved but dirty and bare as she was pulled along the wet cobblestone. The soles of her feet scraped on the road while the King’s Guard hauled her through a screaming crowd of townsfolk. Men ahead held their rifles at attention when a wolf howled in mourning.

The cold ruffled her skirts as the full moon rose over the forest trees. Sansa could hear the gentle lapping of the water on the shore of the lake when a twig snapped, and Lady stood at the entrance of the forest. She was full-grown and white as snow. The wolf softly padded to her mistress, holding something in her mouth that sparkled in the moonlight. Reaching out her hand, Lady dropped an emerald and diamond ring in Sansa’s palm. Glancing at the wolf, they were suddenly back at the tree where her mother and sibling were buried. A strange fire glowed from behind the huge oak tree while the shadow of a man stood holding his hand out to her desperately.

“Mine for yours,” his voice said sadly holding something that glistened like gold in the firelight.

Gold was revealed as her hand swiped a thick layer of dust away from the painting’s ornate frame in Harrenhal’s gallery.

 _Duchess of the Vale_ , the engraving read and Sansa glanced up at the enormous portrait. It was covered in dust with a heavy cloth protecting it. A slender hand rested on the woman’s lap as Sansa stared at the same emerald ring gracing her finger.

A force tugged her back, finding herself outside near the labyrinth. Sansa’s eyes grew wide at the hedges. They were too small. In fact, the once enormous and sculpted shrubbery barely came to her own height as she neared.

It wasn’t a maze of any sorts, but a small cemetery with a stone structure in the center. Scared, Sansa glanced back at the house and could see a lone figure in the second-floor window. It was Petyr, she knew it was him and felt a pang in her heart.

A little girl, ghostly in her fiery curls pointed to the entrance of the small cemetery guarded by an iron gate. Lady came to sit at the girl’s side, giving her the jeweled ring Sansa held moments ago.

“You don’t belong here. You must go,” the girl said in a voice very much like Sansa at that age.

Frightened, Sansa backed away until her arm touched the rusted gates.  Opening one, she stepped inside with her hand, still resting on the metal scrollwork. Only then did she look at her hand. A gold ring, too large for her finger glimmered in the moonlight. Sansa turned and saw all the beautifully carved headstones.

One after another and another bore the same name…

_Baelish_

She began running through the maze of headstones to the mausoleum when the doors opened to a bright and burning light. Just then, the earth opened beneath her feet, and Sansa felt herself falling into a bottomless pit. She screamed and clawed at the roots to halt her descent, but it was too late.

Her limbs, weightless in the dark water, flailed at nothing. The moonlight glittered in the ripples above her. The shadow of a person looked down at her, watching motionless. Was she rising or falling deeper? Sansa reached our her hand to the shadow, desperately trying to swim up but her dress was pulling her down and down…

 

 

Sansa sat up in a cold sweat, gasping for each breath. She was in her room. Lady yelped in concern and came to her mistress, sitting in her lap. It was a dream, she told herself. Just a stupid nightmare. Sansa hadn’t dreamt at all since coming to Kings Landing and yet her first had to be some terrifying riddle. She sighed and plopped back down into her soft bed, pulling up the duvet. It had to be near dawn, Sansa pondered. It was still dark outside her windows, and Sansa knew she was never going to get any sleep.

Perhaps she should not have drunk so much champagne again, she chided herself. The bubbles went right to her head. After her maid helped her undress, Sansa practically fell asleep before her head hit the pillow. Now, she was wide awake.

Sansa lit the candle next to her bed and looked at the porcelain clock. It was very late or very early depending on the way you considered it. She wondered if Petyr had come home at all tonight. Maybe he went to see Myranda after playing cards. Perhaps he spent the night.

Brushing that ill-feeling away, Sansa slipped on her dressing gown, securing it at her waist. She shouldn’t care what Petyr does. All in all, Sansa was glad Myranda did not come to the theatre last night. Sansa was confident she would have talked through the entire performance and more importantly, been offended by all the crude comments. Sansa and Petyr certainly weren’t helping the brunette’s reputation tonight.

_Petyr_

He was very charming and tender this evening, Sansa smiled sadly. He genuinely seemed to have wanted her to enjoy the opera. Enjoy it she did, minus the heckling and cruel stares. Other than that, it couldn’t have been more perfect with a northern love story. Of course, Joffrey and the ton would loathe it, but Sansa didn’t care. The music and singing made her heart soar.

Petyr held her hand, and she imagined his lips brushing her fingers, but Sansa couldn’t be sure. The dress was so beautiful. She felt like a queen on his arm. Petyr must have taken great care in its making, and the thought made her tummy flutter. He shouldn’t be giving her such gifts. Sansa touched her neck where the stunning jewels rested only hours ago. She would never wear them again, she presumed. Perhaps they were meant for Myranda. A ward, even one from a wealthy house couldn’t wear such expensive things.

Sir Harry popped into her mind. He was very handsome, but that’s where any beauty of his ended apparently. Petyr said he wanted to marry her only for the money he hoped to receive. Petyr could have agreed, and no one would have thought ill of him for it. How much was she worth, Sansa wondered? How much would Petyr pay to get rid of her when the time was right?

She wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. If Petyr didn’t want to marry her off, then either he was a miser or Sir Harry was asking for too much to take her off his hands. Surely, no man would marry her for love. They would expect compensation. Or after the bloom was off the rose, Myranda would probably get sick of Sansa and tell her new husband to send the scandalous girl to a convent somewhere.

Walking down the stairs, Sansa knew she wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight without help. Lady sprawled out on her bed, knowing her mistress would return soon. She wished Petyr would just send them both back to Harrenhal.

 _The Whore of Harrenhal_ , she laughed bitterly and tried to recall her dream, but it had drifted away. Lady was in it and the labyrinth… No, her mind was too addled with other worrisome thoughts of the present. Soon they would have to marry, she wagered. It made more sense to take his new bride home in the spring and not during a cold and dreary winter.  

The library was still warm when she entered silently. Did the footmen forget to snuff out the fire when she retired? Or Petyr came home and only recently went to bed, she thought. His chair was empty as the embers still glowed hot, crackling in the hearth.

She went quietly to the sideboard and found the brandy, smirking at Petyr’s remark earlier tonight. So, he had noticed she was drinking, did he? Why did he care, she frowned, pouring herself a small glass. She needed a nightcap tonight. Tomorrow, Sansa could just blame it on the champagne. Petyr didn’t know she drank almost the entire bottle while waiting for him in his box while he bargained with Sir Harry.

A voice from the sofa in front of the fire startled Sansa, making her scream, spilling a bit of brandy on the floor.

“At this point, why don’t you keep a bottle in your room? Saves you having to sneak down here,” Petyr’s slurred voice echoed from behind the high back of the sofa.

“You’re home,” she stuttered stupidly.

“Yes… I see you weren’t expecting me,” he drawled as Sansa moved and could finally see him laying sideways on the cushions with a decanter and glass on the floor next to him. Clearly, he needed a drink too, she frowned. The charlatan.

“I – I thought that… perhaps…” she stalled coming around to stand near the fireplace.

“I should have gone to bed already, yes, yes, of course,” he smirked, downing his glass while watching her.

Petyr was drunk. He must not have done well at Black’s, she smirked. Sansa hoped some novice divested him of thousands tonight. It would serve him right.

“Did you lose Harrenhal this time?” Sansa said precisely what she was thinking.

“I never lose, sweetling,” he chuckled, pouring another glass.

“Then why are you lying here drunk at this hour?” she added with a twinge of disgust, taking his glass away from him. He was liable to drink the whole bottle if she let him.

“Oh, my little hypocrite. A better question, why are _you_ here?” he sat up smiling. He was dressed in only trousers and shirt sleeves. The lace cravat hung loosely on his unbuttoned shirt.

“None of your damned business,” she retorted, wanting to throw the brandy in his face.

“Everything is my business, sweetling,” he sighed leaning into the back of the sofa and grunting. She could smell the whiskey on him from here. Sansa was about to ring for a footman to help Petyr to his room when she stalled at his words. “How often do you come down here… _every night_?” he raised a mischievous eyebrow.

Petyr wouldn’t even remember this conversation in the morning and Sansa did not feel like answering him anyway. The servants would wonder why they were down here so late and frankly, Sansa didn’t need any more gossip about the two of them. She would help him to bed. Making her decision, Sansa downed her brandy and set the decanter and two glasses on the credenza.

“Come on, you need to go to bed,” she sighed, walking over to him.

“You have no idea what I need,” Petyr chuckled again. He leaned forward as his fingers found the sash to her dressing gown, pulling Sansa towards him.

Petyr had tugged her so close that she now stood between his legs. His fingers had not relinquished their hold on the silk belt as she debated on stepping away. All thoughts of that left her mind when his hands untied the silk, letting her dressing gown fall open, exposing her nightdress underneath.

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat when Petyr’s warm palms rested just above her hip bones. He didn’t seem to see her in his glazed and empty stare. Petyr’s head bowed and suddenly his arms wrapped around her waist, bringing his cheek to her fluttering tummy. Sansa could feel his breath and wondered if he could feel hers. Her heart was pounding as he held her.

She knew she should move away yet her feet refused to obey. Petyr’s hair was thick and shiny while his head rose and fell with each breath. Sansa was so very tempted to run her fingers through that hair, that she willed them to stay at her sides. Tonight he had been hers. Not once had he mentioned Myranda of his own accord. It was Sansa that kept bringing the woman up. Now, Petyr was holding her as if he never wanted to let go. It was too intimate. She had to back away from this. Nothing good would come from it.

“Oh, my love,” he murmured, and Sansa stilled.

She didn’t know what to say or do. Petyr was clearly drunk, and he couldn’t know what he was saying. Before Sansa could push him away, Petyr had yanked her onto his lap, straddling his hips. The nightdress constricted her movement as she struggled, but he refused to let go. When his mouth found her breast through the thin silk, she felt a quiver below her navel. All her struggling was fruitless as he held her tighter and lavished attention on that nipple that suddenly became hard.

This was wrong, but it felt so good. Sansa was whisked back to that night in the spring when Petyr did all sorts of sinful things to her body. She responded to him then, and those same feelings of pleasure quickly spiked again now with him underneath her. Petyr was stronger than he looked as he kept a vice grip while his mouth suckled her, dampening the silk. What she would give to have him pull it down and have that sensual contact.

“Petyr,” she mewled unconsciously. Sansa wasn’t sure if it was an objection or…

His hand was suddenly in her hair, pulling her head down to meet his lips in a fierce kiss. Sansa could taste the whiskey as her mind kept telling her to stop, but his mouth was so addicting. She had almost forgotten what a good kisser Petyr was, even in his inebriated state. It wasn’t gentle or teasing, he was ravaging her mouth like a man starved, while she met his intensity too eagerly.

Petyr’s hands were everywhere. In her hair, as one massaged her breast, then cupped her backside. It was then Sansa felt it. He was aroused. The drink had not affected him ultimately. He groaned into her mouth when she reflexively pressed down on him. That throbbing was building between her legs like before as she ached to find that release.

His hand traced her bum down to her thigh, and Sansa could feel him gathering her nightdress. She needed to stop this before it went any further, but once his fingers found her, she melted into him. No, she couldn’t stop it, her body wouldn’t let her.

Petyr’s mouth traveled down and feasted on a sweet spot under her jaw while she ground down hard on him. His fingers curled and pumped and Sansa knew it was going to hit her fast. Her core was pulsing to almost the point of pain. She needed it to happen. She latched onto him, riding it out and felt him thrusting his hips up to meet her.

Sansa was panting as she felt the beginning of the end while his voice moaned incoherently into her neck.

“Oh, yes, my love. I can’t wait to make you my wife… make love to you on our wedding night,” Petyr groaned and writhed under her.

It was too late, he hit that spot, and Sansa was lost for a moment as his words rang in her ears. Her body was convulsing from the pleasure and felt him grunt deeply into her chest as he met his end just as quickly. All of a sudden, Sansa pushed herself off the man as if he had burned her.

She was wet between her thighs and that dull ache still resonated deeply. The man sprawled out on the sofa, completely disheveled and thoroughly sated, stared at her with drunken and heavy lidden eyes.

_Make you, my wife…wedding night…_

The tears stung her eyes but Sansa refused to let them fall. Petyr thought she was Myranda in his drunkenness. He frowned slightly incomprehension of what just transpired, and that’s all it took. Sansa ran from the library up to her room and bolted the door. What had she done?

Her heart ached as all the pleasure from moments ago was long gone. Petyr hadn’t touched or tried anything like that since Myranda arrived at Harrenhal. A physical reminder of who he belonged to. The night at the inn did not count because he was sick, and there was nothing to be done about the sleeping arrangements.

Petyr had been so charming and sweet recently with the trip to the gallery, the beautiful gown, jewels, and the opera. If he weren’t engaged, Sansa would have thought he was courting her, but it was not to be. Petyr didn’t want Sansa after all.

That night at Harrenhal was lonely lust, a mistake. Tonight Petyr was so drunk he thought he was kissing his bride to be. Sansa let him touch her, she actively participated in it all. She wanted to kiss him, touch him, and feel the pleasure he gave. She tried to make him hers again, but Petyr was never hers.

Sansa felt so shameful as she laid on her bed while Lady sniffed at her curiously. Petyr was going to marry Myranda, and Sansa knew now what unbridled jealousy felt like. The man she never would have given a second glance, the man she hated for so many reasons was the man she desperately desired. No, she couldn’t be in love with him. Not a man like him. Petyr wasn’t a good man like her father would have wished for her. He was nothing of the sort.

Petyr was a social-climbing, gambling, unscrupulous rake, and everyone knew it. Sansa knew it and yet…

Oh God, it was hopeless, she cried softly. She had been treated so dreadfully these past few years that the attentions of this man must have seemed like a welcome dream. Petyr wasn’t a fairy prince stealing her away to his castle in the clouds. She knew what he was, but there was always something between them when no one else was around, that was different. Most of the time Petyr made her feel beautiful and wanted, intelligent and witty. Unquestionably, they clashed and often but there was always that underlining tenderness from him that Sansa never expected nor could understand.

She had often wondered if Petyr indeed fancied her over Myranda and now, tonight, she knew. He wanted his bride. He dreamed of her as his wife. All these little outings were just – kindness. Perhaps, Petyr was trying to give Sansa a bit of what she dreamed of before he…

That must be it, she cringed. Petyr was going to marry Myranda and very soon. Despite whatever the brunette had proclaimed before, Sansa knew now that she wasn’t returning to Harrenhal with them. If the heckling at the opera didn’t open his eyes to the problems of keeping Sansa, then he was an obtuse man. Petyr had to know it. He was going to send her away and appease his peers before his wedding.

The frown on his face downstairs was enough. He must know that it wasn’t his beloved bride he was kissing and fondling earlier. Drunk as he was, he had to know it was Sansa. A man in his position couldn’t let that happen again. Harrenhal was far and away, but rutting with his ward in the capital was much worse. She saw it in his eyes for that brief moment.

Lady licked her hand, and Sansa sighed at the little wolf as a part of that dream came back to her. The little girl… and the figure in the window.

_You don’t belong here_

The dream girl was right. Sansa didn’t belong here or Harrenhal. She was falling in love with a man that would soon be married. It couldn’t be out of the realm of impossibility to think Petyr might honestly fancy or love Myranda. Many men had mistresses, including married ones. Petyr was a notorious libertine before his engagement. Perhaps he was having trouble letting go of his past to marry into a proper family.

Whatever it was, Sansa’s heart ached and ached. For what was worse than loving someone who did not love you back?

_Living with him and his wife._

If Sansa had not cared for him, it would not have been a terrible situation. A lovely home, food, shelter, and maybe a little kindness far away from the ton.

Now, she cared, and it hurt more than she could have imagined. Tomorrow, Sansa would ask Petyr to send her away for good.

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of Joffrey's ball. It was too big and needed to be broken up into two chapters.

 

 

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The bright morning light made Petyr’s head throb as the footman poured him a cup of coffee. He shouldn’t have drunk so much. Many things plagued his mind from last night. Harrold would have been found by now as the inquiries into his death would undoubtedly begin. The boy wasn’t anyone of importance except to Lady Waynwood and of course, Lysa. Young Robert had been such a sickly boy, that had he perished, arrogant Sir Harrold Hardyng would have become the new Duke of the Vale. Perhaps, Petyr could use that to his advantage, for today was going to be long and hard. Frankly, Petyr couldn’t wait for it to be over with.

Petyr had to play his cards very carefully. Joffrey was an idiot but a cruel and ruthless idiot. The Lannisters believed they were far more clever than they really were but it still was precarious. Lysa wouldn’t confide in Lady Waynwood to divulge her little intrigue, Petyr surmised. Myranda was so vain and narrow-minded but Petyr knew Lysa wouldn’t trust a Royce to save her life.

Hardyng, Waynwood, Arryn, and Royce. The answer was here. The conspiracy he was going to create was right here. Who would kill Harrold? What would be the motivation? Hopefully, it would only appear that the boy had won big and foolishly left alone to be robbed and murdered. However, Petyr always had a contingency plan for everything.

Robert. The young duke was the key. Perhaps he could tell Lysa he sniffed out a plot to kill her son. The woman was ridiculously jealous, and her eyes seemed to be only on her niece. Would the woman go public with her knowledge to break the marriage contract with the Royces? Lysa was a thorn but not entirely obtuse. Petyr losing his titles and fortune would be just as bad for her. He would never be allowed to marry Lysa even if he were free. That appeared to be her goal and could not risk it, hence sending Harry to woo and buy off Sansa instead.

Bringing Sansa to the ball tonight could send Lysa into a rage. If Petyr were going to deal with Lysa, it would have to be tonight. It would be too suspicious if he came to her before then and he needed to keep Robert on his side.

Petyr needed a plot. A plot to kill Robert that backfired. That’s how he would play to Joffrey. It could be another explanation into Harrold’s death considering the arrogant boy’s claim if Petyr needed it. That would be more important and hopefully, put Sansa to the side, but not completely. He had to be prepared for what to do with her as well.

He had been the social-climbing fop for so long in their eyes. His only talent lay in creating wealth. Sansa was just another pretty young girl in his bed. Certainly of no consequence. Petyr knew Myranda was playing her game as well, and the ball would be perfect for her to garner sympathy for once in her life.

Showing up with Sansa, _at young Robert’s_ _request_ , would anger the brunette and her proud father. Robert made no secret of his affection for his pretty cousin, and Petyr was positive; the boy would be overjoyed to dance with her all night. That would infuriate Lysa further, Petyr smiled. The woman was having a dreadful time finding the young duke a bride and would use this night and all the southern houses to parade him around like a prize calf.

Petyr sipped his coffee and sighed. He loved the chaos of it all, but it still weighed heavy on his mind trying to tie up loose ends. With Lysa dead, he could conceivably lay blame to Harrold’s demise on her. Perhaps, Lysa found out that the boy and Lady Waynwood stood to gain from an unfortunate accident befalling Robert. How could he tie the Royces into this?

He drummed his fingers on the table, piecing together the lineages of the Vale. Robert, then Harrold… and there it was, Petyr smirked. Lord Royce stood to gain everything from both boy’s untimely death. Why did he not think of it before, he cursed himself.

_Because you didn’t have a gorgeous young heir vying for your sweetling before._

Yes, this could actually work, Petyr thought. It would make sense that Royce would marry his daughter to a marquess in the Riverlands after his attempts with young Harrold had failed. An alliance would increase the wealth of the Vale, which is precisely what Petyr told Lysa over a year ago.

In this case with Royce, it would now be a family connection as well and held merit. That alone would make Joffrey break the marriage contract. Petyr knew marriage to Lysa would have never been granted, and he was grateful for it. Marrying Myranda kept him in close contact with her and the young duke but nothing more. That was the angle he played to Lysa, wooing Myranda was all a ploy for him to be near Lysa.

The next course of action would be to send Robert home with Lady Waynwood instead. She was an old bird and would take it as an advantage to fostering the new duke, but Petyr had his people everywhere in the Vale, especially the Eyrie. Sooner or later, the boy would be under his direction. It would be too much to suggest to the king at this point in Petyr fostering the boy, so offering up the poor Lady Waynwood, who tragically lost her ward yesterday would be the best play.

Petyr’s thoughts returned to Sansa. There could be a few ways to play it. Obviously, the Lannisters would wish her gone from the capital. A convent? Possibly. However, Joffrey would chortle about the idea of throwing her in a brothel. The girl hadn’t done anything wrong. Nothing treasonous. They would have no real reason to kill her. Petyr had to play this card very carefully.

He knew Joffrey would love to insult him with the girl to his misjudgment. Petyr would to wait and see where the conversation led them. It was always about outwitting his opponents and quick thinking. There would be so much chaos tonight, Petyr had a slight thrill anticipating it.

It was almost arousing to see his plans and pieces come together to do his bidding. The very feeling had Sansa invading his thoughts again. God, he had nearly forgotten how lovely her mouth was. Her nipple stiffening with his tongue. The way she clenched him and gasped as he felt her release. It was heaven to him. It wasn’t until she pushed away with the look of hurt on her face that finally brought him out of his drunken lust.

She did struggle, Petyr’s foggy mind tried to remember. He practically raped her last night just like in the hot spring under the house. Sansa’s beautiful face was painted with anger and shame. She submitted to him for a time, but the after-effects seemed to show her true feelings. Perhaps she really did not want him after all.

When did a woman’s refusal ever stop a man or an arranged and loveless marriage, he frowned bitterly? Petyr promised himself he would not force himself on her again. Once they returned to Harrenhal, he would try again to woo her, gain her trust. They were making progress before Myranda arrived. Even the past few days would have been wonderful had it not been for the politics of the ton and the fact that he was already engaged to marry.

Petyr saw it in her eyes before he left for Black’s after returning from the opera. Sansa was disappointed. The girl had assumed they would spend the rest of the evening together. Perhaps there was still hope. It would only take more time, he sighed. Petyr would just have to refrain from wanting to kiss her every waking moment. The scent of her was still on his hand when he eventually went to bed. It was that musky honey that he couldn’t wait to delve into.

“You’re awfully deep in thought this morning,” her angelic voice rang as she entered the dining room.

Petyr smiled warmly and stood politely as she took her seat adjacent to him as she always did.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, not trying to embarrass her but was curious as to how she would play this.

“I do believe I need to be careful with champagne, my lord,” she smiled with no hint of a blush that he expected. “You were right. The bubbles went right to my head.”

Ah, so the girl was going to pretend their little tryst never happened. Fine, he conceded. He could play that game. He needed her to go to the ball tonight and embarrassing or enraging her would not bode well for his plans. He had too much to drink as well, and Petyr bet that’s exactly what Sansa thought.

“Champagne has never been my drink of choice,” he smiled tucking into his eggs. “If it makes you feel any better, I had too much whiskey at Black’s last night. It’s the first time I’ve lost in ages.”

That made her smile, even though she tried to hide it. Petyr could tell Sansa was piecing it together on possibly why he was drunk last night.

“Perhaps it is your conscious telling you to be a better man and stop gambling,” she offered quietly and then added, “since you’ll be a married man soon.”

“Quite,” he grinned. “Black’s is notoriously filled with husbands wishing to get away from their wives. Do you see me as a domesticated man?”

She refused to look at him, and Petyr thought he caught a little smirk on those rosy lips.

“Definitely not,” Sansa replied and quickly forked a bit of food into her mouth.

Petyr smiled, drinking his coffee and loved teasing her. The sooner they left Kings Landing, the better.

“Alas, you’re right, my dear,” he mused. “I need to attempt to be a better husband from the start. That would be the honorable thing to do for my lovely wife to be.”

That silenced her as she frowned a little, trying to avoid the topic. Petyr sensed something was troubling her, and sincerely hoped she wasn’t about to question him about what happened last night.

“I was wondering,” Sansa began timidly. “Obviously, you won’t want me around when you marry. You’ll want privacy with Myranda…”

“Yes?” he inquired softly, catching her wince a little.

“Am I to assume, you’ll send me back to Harrenhal soon? Unless, that’s where you plan on taking her, of course,” she stuttered.

“Do you wish to return home?” he asked curiously.

The girl did not hesitate, and a small pang hit his stomach.

“Yes,” she answered.

“I see.”

Petyr finished his coffee in contemplation. “Do you wish to leave before or after the wedding?” he prodded not even reflecting with satisfaction that she just referred to Harrenhal as ‘ _home.’_

Sansa toyed with her cup, debating on what she really wanted or what she thought he wanted to hear.

“Before,” she finished softly. “I do not like the capital. They clearly don’t want me here and… well, you and Myranda need to be alone. I’m in the way, and I don’t want to bring any more scandal to either of you.”

_You don’t know how right you are, sweetling._

“How soon do you wish to leave, my dear?” Petyr said nonchalantly picking up his paper noticing Harry’s murder wasn’t mentioned yet. It would be front-page news, of course.

“As soon as possible?” she muttered shyly as if she expected him to deny her.

“Very well,” he said, scanning the periodical and caught her surprised stare. “You can leave tomorrow, but I require you to accompany me tonight.”

“Tonight? Surely, my lord, you should take your bride with you…”

“Oh, she’ll be there, escorted by her father, as it would be proper for such an event,” he interrupted and flipped the page avoiding her eyes.

“What event?” she asked nervously.

“The King’s Grand Ball, of course,” he chuckled. “As Marquess and advisor to the king, I simply must attend.”

“But – but,” she stuttered, “Why would you want _me_ there? Joffrey and the rest would be insulted… and Myranda…”

She was an astute girl, Petyr had to give her that.

“His Grace has asked for you to attend,” Petyr supplied quickly and saw – was it a flash of hurt in her eyes? “Young Robert is quite taken with you, and I daresay he will have a fit if I do not bring you along.”

“But, Aunt Lysa…” Sansa gulped. “You saw how she stared at us last night, I couldn’t possibly…”

“You can and you will,” he said with a hint of coldness. “Lysa, with all due respect, is only the Dowager Duchess. Young Robert is the Duke of the Vale, and he is beginning to understand it. His request supersedes that of his mother.”

“If you say, but the duke’s desires do not supersede that of the King, surely he doesn’t want…”

Petyr tried not to smile. Sansa was putting up a good defense, and he knew she absolutely did not want to attend.

“Sansa, it is a silly and sickly boy’s wish. The king will understand. Everyone will gossip and most likely ignore you for the evening, but I’m positive you’ll have your dance card filled with Robert and myself. The boy hasn’t seen his beloved cousin in over a year and may not get another chance… are you really going to be that selfish?” he finalized seeing her face change from so many emotions.

She faltered a bit in thought. “So if I accompany you tonight, you’ll allow me to leave tomorrow?”

“Heavens, girl, you make a ball sound as if I’m leading you to the gallows,” he sighed. “You’ve never been to a royal ball. I’m betting you always wished for one since coming of age.”

“It’s different now.”

“Yes, you recanted. Your family is dead and have not attempted any further treason against the crown. The king pardoned you,” he rambled in irritation. “The ton is a bunch of overstuffed and frivolous idiots with nothing better to do than drink and gossip. Pay them no mind. It is the duke’s and my wish that you attend. That is the end of it. You can scurry away to Harrenhal tomorrow and hide like a little coward.”

That ruffled her feathers, and Petyr knew it.

“I am _not_ a coward,” she seethed.

Petyr put down his paper and smirked, “Then prove it.”

 

* * *

 

 

He had spent most of his day in the study preparing to leave. Sansa wasn’t going by herself tomorrow. Petyr needed to finish up important business and already had maids readying both of their belongings. Petyr had sent up the other box from the boutique to her room and had not heard a peep from the girl all afternoon. Madame Berkins had promised it was the most beautiful dress she had ever made and tailored precisely to Petyr’s request. He couldn’t wait to see Sansa in it. She would be the belle of the ball and outshine every woman there, even the new queen. Margery was beautiful, but she paled in comparison to his little witch.

Undoubtedly, the rumors had been flying since last night about them and it would be a terrible evening for Sansa, but the last she would ever have to endure. Myranda had no idea Petyr was going to bring the girl tonight, nor did Robert. It wouldn’t matter though, for Robert would be ecstatic to see Sansa. Petyr didn’t need to worry about the boy. It was really a matter of what would Lysa, and Myranda would do. He had received news from sources that Harrold had been found and it would be all the talk tonight. Petyr just had to deal with Lysa swiftly and decisively and then the rest should fall into place.

The day passed too quickly as they dined and retreated to their rooms to dress for the night. Petyr, once again, found himself waiting impatiently in the parlor. Why in God’s name did it take women so long to dress? Two maids helped her tonight, and she should have been ready faster than for the opera, Petyr grumbled. Oh well, he was used to being fashionably late.

 A little cough made him turn around to find Sansa with her cloak already on and ready to leave. The girl could make sackcloth fashionable. Her face was lightly powdered while her auburn tresses piled up into the most elegant style, piled on top of her head with perfect ringlets cascading down. The maids fixed little diamond jewels in the shape of stars with eight points all through her hair that twinkled in the soft light.

Petyr wondered why she already donned her cloak. Did she not approve of the gown? He moved towards her and unfastened the dove grey and soft green cloak, pulling it away. Petyr couldn’t contain his praise as he took her in from head to toe. He would have to send Madame Berkins a very grateful gift for this perfection. It was better than he ever expected. The girl was an angel without wings.

The fairest of lavender silk hugged her slim frame, covered with something finer than any lace he had seen before. It was so thin and delicate that you could see right through it, giving the material an iridescent sheen. The dress wasn’t overdone with bows, and flowers like so many ladies wore nowadays. Its simplicity enhanced the elegance and purity of the girl that wore it.

The seamstress had sewn hundreds of little pearls and crystals making Sansa shimmer like a spring’s morning’s dew. She was breathtaking. The woman had made a matching ribbon and silk rose tied around her slender neck and suggested simple pearl earbobs. The dress was the jewel she advised, but Petyr had to disagree. The girl was the brilliant jewel and the dress a magnificent setting.

Petyr’s eyes finally found hers as he smiled at the blush on her tender cheeks. She knew how beautiful she looked and yet that shyness was still there. They both knew all eyes would be on her again tonight.

“You are… _exquisite_ , my lady,” he breathed. “Goddesses are green with envy tonight.”

She blushed hard at that and cast her eyes down. Petyr’s gloved finger tilted up her chin, forcing her to look at him.

“It won’t be a terrible as you think,” he lied. “You’ll be with me, Robert and Myranda. I won’t leave you alone to fend for yourself.”

Sansa reluctantly nodded and took a calming breath. Going with him tonight guaranteed her freedom in a strange way, and she was willing to do it if it meant going home. Petyr gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek and felt that porcelain skin burn. This girl was too precious and too good for this world, he smiled.

Petyr returned her cloak to her shoulders, fixing the pearl clasp. This time she didn’t hesitate at the door but followed him dutifully to the awaiting carriage. The dress was so delicate and fragile, Petyr lifted her skirts a bit to keep it from snagging as the footman helped her inside.

It was a chilly night, and Petyr could only imagine the weather upon returning to Harrenhal in the coming days. He was not looking forward to it and loathed the winter. After living in the south for so long, he had grown accustomed to its warmth. As he climbed in, a maid rushed out with a fur muff for her lady, handing it to him. Instead of sitting across from the girl, as etiquette dictated, Petyr sat next to her, and she did not seem surprised at all.

The ride to the palace was quiet as the evening turned cold. Petyr could feel a slight shiver as the dress’ material was so thin; it would have been better suited for summer months. His cloak was lined and heavier, as he shifted to bring it around her. Luckily, she didn’t reject the offer and let him pull her closer to share the warmth. He might as well enjoy it, Petyr grimaced. This was as close as she was going to let him get for some time after tonight.

As they neared the bright lights of the palace, he felt her stiffen. In that moment, Petyr knew Sansa was afraid. He did not doubt her courage and was only egging her on this morning, but he knew she was smart. Sansa knew what lay behind those walls tonight as he gave a reassuring squeeze of her arm.

There were many carriages, and Petyr was later than he wished to be, but there was no changing it. All eyes would be on them the moment they were announced regardless of whether they arrived first or last.

Petyr stepped out first and helped Sansa down. The footmen gawked at the beautiful girl on the older man’s arm, and Petyr was sure she would have every man’s attention this evening. Guiding her up the massive stone steps, their cloaks were taken, and Petyr presented his card and Sansa to the Lord Steward for an announcement.

They walked through the grand foyer, Petyr felt her tremble once more, and the guilt hit him in the gut. He took her arm and smiled warmly as the herald could be heard ahead near the ballroom.

“The Earl and Countess of Blackhaven,” the herald projected.

Whispers had already begun as Petyr and Sansa made their way to the entrance of the ballroom. Sansa held her lace fan and gripped his arm a little tighter.

Petyr touched her hand on his arm as they stood at in the doorway looking down into the royal ballroom. This was it. There was no turning back now. Anyone who was anyone in court came to pay homage to the king and his new queen.

“His Most Honorable, the Marquess of Harrenhall and his ward, Lady Sansa,” the herald belted over the chattering crowd.

As if lightning struck them dumb, the room fell into silence as the ton stared at them. Sansa’s hand quivered again, and Petyr whispered from the side of his mouth, “Chin up. Courage, my dear.”

Petyr heard the girl take a deep breath as he held her hand walking down the stairs into the what seemed like a sentence to hell. She was his Persephone and he Hades, that kidnapped this lovely girl of the spring, only to drag her down into his depths.

He glanced around the room and met disapproving glares and whispers with a smile and nod as if it were any other evening in the capital. Joffrey was nowhere to be seen, but the young queen was seated on her throne with an unreadable look on her face. Manderly grinned, raising a glass in acknowledgment.

Other lords, Petyr knew well from gambling and business, had many expressions ranging from smirks, envy, and mocking. Of course, they would think him the greatest of fools for bringing this girl with him to the palace. Only a fool would make such a stupid decision. Petyr knew they were all secretly awaiting his downfall and tonight’s social blunder would most likely be the last straw to those in power.

Petyr could hear them whisper as they passed by. Those delicate fans did not disguise the horrible things said and he felt Sansa stiffen. To the girl’s credit, she stood tall and pretended it had no effect on her. His little witch was strong and sure.

“Uncle Petyr!” he heard a voice shout in the crowd. The music began, but no one was dancing yet as the show paraded through the ballroom. Young Robert bounded through the people unapologetically until he practically ran into Petyr, hugging him. The boy looked ridiculous. Lysa had dressed him up like a little prince. His clothes were embroidered with heavy gold brocade and looked more like a puppet painted in bright colors with a material that was too bulky for the young boy’s frame.

“Your Grace,” Petyr smiled and hugged the boy in return. “You look very handsome tonight. Have the young ladies been swooning yet?”

“Don’t tease me,” he whined until he saw Sansa and a huge smile appeared. “Sansa! You came! I hoped you would.”

Petyr breathed a sigh of relief. Sansa wouldn’t ask Robert about why he wished for her presence, for it would be rude. Robert wouldn’t think of it. Just as Petyr hoped, the young duke was thrilled to have her here.

“I wouldn’t miss it, Your Grace,” she smiled softly as she curtsied to the boy.

Robert took her hand and kissed it, leaning in closer. “I should address you as Lady Sansa here, shouldn’t I? You’re my cousin, but mother said this isn’t like balls back home. We must be proper.”

“Yes, we must, Your Grace,” she replied politely and whispered in return. “But if no one is listening to us, we can call each other by our given names. It will be our secret.”

Petyr was proud of his little sweetling. She was indeed sincere and kind. Robert could be burdensome and obnoxious, but he responded to Sansa’s gentleness. Something he surely never received from his over-bearing and smothering mother.

“Lady Sansa was just telling me that she hasn’t danced with you in over a year, Your Grace. Hopefully, your mother hasn’t filled your dance card completely?” Petyr smiled and watched the boy’s face light up.

“She’s trying to marry me off tonight, I just know it, Uncle Petyr. Will you convince her to let me dance with Sans – I mean, my cousin tonight? Please?” Robert pleaded.

“Anything you wish, my boy,” Petyr said, patting Robert’s shoulder. “Do not fret. I will not disappoint you. As long as you save at least one dance for me with Lady Sansa?”

“Oh, yes!” the young duke practically bounced in excitement. “You’re a much better dancer than me.” Robert leaned in to whisper in Petyr’s ear, never taking his eyes off his pretty cousin. “Promise me, she won’t dance with any other gentlemen tonight, Uncle. Just you and I. I don’t want them near her. Mother will never agree, but I want to marry her. I’m hoping to change her mind. She looks so pretty tonight. Surely, Mother will see she is fit to be my bride. She is family, after all.”

Petyr half-smiled at the boy. “Well, it may take more time to convince your mother, Robert. Don’t push too hard just yet. This isn’t the time or place for this conversation. We’ll speak more about it later. But don’t worry, I will act as a chaperone and keep the other men away from our lady.”

“My Lord Marquess,” a stern woman’s voice sounded behind him. Petyr didn’t need to turn around to know who it belonged.

Sansa immediately curtsied and tried to remain calm under the nose of her frowning aunt, the Dowager Duchess.

“Your Grace,” she muttered.

“Ah, my dulcet darling,” Petyr kissed Lysa’s hand with a formal bow. His greeting was too familiar; he knew but needed to attempt to keep Lysa from creating a scene. “You are ravishing as ever. You must save me a few dances, for I will be eternally jealous of all the younger men vying for your attention tonight. Do you believe my future bride will think me wicked if I spend most of the evening with you?”

Lysa tried to keep her frown, but he could see her mask falter just a bit. Lysa just as pompous and over-dressed as her son. She wore a royal blue dress, cinched so tightly her bosom was just about ready to pop out from their confinement. Lysa was covered in bows and pink flowers and that sickly sweet perfume she always wore. She glared at her beautiful niece as she rose and removed her hand from Petyr’s arm.

“I wish to speak to you… privately, Lord Petyr,” she whispered, trying to ignore Sansa.

“Of course, of course. Anything for you, my angel,” he grinned, pecking her cheek with a lingering kiss. “I must greet Lord Royce and my future wife first, or _they_ might gossip about us.”

“They’re already gossiping about you, Petyr… _and her_ ,” she sneered in his ear. “Are you mad? Why would you bring her here?”

“Her?” he raised his eyebrows in confusion. “Oh, she’s harmless. They’ll be talking about her, and never notice when I steal you away into a dark corner. Robert’s happy to see her. They’re cousins after all…”

“But, you…”

Petyr spied a furious Myranda across the room with a few other ladies, and he smiled at her. She did not smile back.

“Hush, my darling,” he whispered seductively. “We’ll talk soon… _privately_ , I promise you. I do see my fiancée and must keep up appearances.”

“Ladies, Your Grace, I’ll return shortly. If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Petyr bowed gracefully and saw genuine fear on Sansa’s face at the thought of being left alone with her aunt. “My beautiful bride requires my attention.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sansa’s throat clenched, watching in horror as Petyr left her. She could hear Robert babbling about dancing or something of the sort, but she didn’t understand a word. Petyr glided across the room bowing to Myranda and kissing her cheek tenderly. The ladies had moved away gossiping behind their fans watching the couple. Myranda was upset, that was clear enough. Sansa’s heart dropped at the sight of them, arguing quietly. This was a terrible idea. Sansa knew they were quarreling about her and why he brought her.

“Sansa!” her aunt reprimanded harshly but not loud enough to bring attention to them. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

Out of her stupor, Sansa glanced fearfully at her aunt that was red with anger.

“Yes, Aunt Lysa,” she mumbled stupidly.

“Do not call me that here, stupid girl. You will address me formally,” the woman demanded.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she whispered, looking at the floor and felt Robert slip his hand into hers with a light squeeze that hid behind her skirts.

“I said, why did he bring you here?” Lysa asked, filling Sansa with dread. She knew Petyr never should have brought her tonight.

“Lord Baelish said that… that he wished…” she stuttered, not knowing what to say. Did Petyr want Lysa to know that her son requested her presence? Sansa couldn’t believe that Lysa would have approved by her manner right now. If she told the truth, it would only get Robert into trouble, and the boy looked miserable as it was.

“He wished for what?” her aunt asked.

“That Lord Robert could have a companion and dance partner, of course,” Petyr’s voice echoed as he returned with Myranda on his arm.

“That was thoughtful of Uncle Petyr, wasn’t it mother?” Robert smiled happily.

“Robert, you cannot spend the evening with… Lady Sansa,” Lysa began. “It’s completely improper. You have many young ladies to dance with tonight. Your cousin is beneath your station. You are the Duke…”

“Yes, mother, I know,” the boy interrupted. “But I don’t know anyone here. Sansa is my cousin, and I will spend my time with her if I wish.”

Sansa stood shocked at the young duke challenging his mother. She glanced to Petyr, but he only smiled congenially as Myranda frowned at her. The brunette had daggers for eyes, and Sansa suddenly felt naked in her beautiful gown.

There were many beautiful and well-dressed ladies here tonight as Myranda looked stunning in her mauve damask dress. It was a perfect color for his skin tone and dark hair. Myranda wore a pretty pearl choker and when Sansa glanced down, she saw a sparkling diamond on her ring finger. Since arriving at Harrenhal, Sansa had never seen a ring signifying her engagement until tonight. Petyr must have given it to her just now.

“Robert,” Lysa uttered dangerously trying to control her son. “I won’t have it. You cannot be seen…”

“No,” the young duke retorted hotly. He was close to throwing a tantrum right here in the middle of the ballroom, and that seemed to scare Lysa more than anything. “I am Duke of the Vale. Lady Sansa is my cousin and the king knows it. I don’t care what they think. She didn’t do anything wrong. She’s not like her traitor family… is she Uncle Petyr?”

“Well, if she were, she wouldn’t be standing here right now, would she?” he laughed. “Your mother wouldn’t have taken her in if that was the case. Isn’t that right, Lysa?”

Lysa frowned at Petyr and bent down to her son. “Robert, you will come with me this instant. I’ll not have you ruining your reputation…”  
  
“I will not. I’m tired of you telling me what to do all the time. I’m not a baby anymore,” Robert replied with a strength that surprised Sansa. People were beginning to whisper, and Sansa knew Lysa saw it as well.

“Fine, do as you will. When society shuns you, then you’ll understand, and I’ll have to work twice as hard to find you a suitable wife,” Lysa spat and turned on her heel walking into the crowd.

“Well done, Your Grace,” Petyr grinned. “Spoken like the strong duke you surely will become.”

The boy sighed as he watched his mother disappear into the next room. “Will they really shun me?”

“No, of course not,” Petyr laughed. “You are the Duke of the Vale, not some lowly knight. You are a significant person. Your mother tends to over-exaggerate. She's only protective of her baby.”

“But I’m not a baby!” he almost shouted until Sansa squeezed his hand, noticing the attentive eyes and ears around them.

“Indeed you are not, Your Grace,” Petyr bowed. “Your mother tends to forget how much you’ve grown into a man.”

Sansa thought it best to stay silent. She knew Petyr was only placating the boy and Myranda rolled her eyes more than once. She had no patience for the young duke’s whining.

A servant passed by as Petyr handed glasses of champagne to Myranda first, then Sansa and Robert.

“A toast, to His Grace,” Petyr offered sincerely. “On his newfound strength and boldness.”

Robert smiled wildly at the compliment and sipped the champagne only to make a face afterward. This was his first taste of any wine, Sansa gathered. Lysa didn’t seem to permit him alcohol before.

“And to my beautiful wife to be,” Petyr gazed at Myranda adoringly as Sansa felt her stomach clench.

They raised their glasses again, and Sansa caught Myranda smirking at her. Petyr was wrong. Myranda was not pleased he brought her. Her demeanor told Sansa she did not expect nor want her here tonight. She couldn’t blame the woman. If her fiancée showed up to a royal ball with a woman the ton had been gossiping about all week… she would probably feel the same resentment. Did Myranda hear about the opera, Sansa wondered? Would she believe the gossip of others or her fiancée?

“You will dance with me tonight, won’t you Sansa?” Robert asked nervously.

“Of course,” she smiled. “I can’t think of anyone else I would rather dance with.”

“If you’ll excuse us, I see Lord Royce,” Petyr gestured more to Robert than her, but Sansa acknowledged him all the same with politeness.

“I don’t like waltzes. I’m not very good, but I do like reels and minuets,” the boy rambled as Sansa’s eyes followed the couple as they mingled their way to a very stern Lord Royce. Clearly, he wasn’t happy to see Petyr’s choice of companion either.

She and Robert were all but ignored by the ton, except for the gossip. Petyr was a different man in public. He was charming and lavished attention on his bride while they mingled with other lords and ladies. Robert was talking, but Sansa wasn’t listening as she watched them. Not once did Petyr look in her direction. It was if she wasn’t even here.

Sansa glanced around the room and almost wished that Sir Harry was here. She knew he was a cad if Petyr was to be believed, but at least he would talk to her, and she wouldn’t be stuck with Robert all night. For that is precisely what was going to happen. Myranda would make sure she monopolized Peytr’s time. Sansa couldn’t believe that she would allow her future husband to dance with his scandalous ward in such a place where her reputation was at stake. Things might be different at Harrenhal out of the view of the ton but not here. Petyr never should have insisted she come, no matter what Robert wanted.

The boy took her arm and lead Sansa to where a group was dancing. She was surprised Robert stood up to his mother, and he didn’t seem to hear or care about the gossipers who didn’t try to hide their disdain. The duke was young, she heard them say. He didn’t know any better. Lord Baelish was a buffoon for bringing her.

Young men leered and smirked at her just like they did at the Eyrie. It was no different here, and Sansa felt transported back to that night of Robert’s ball. If she wasn’t thrown out, Sansa thought she was going to find herself alone once again when she wasn’t dancing with her sickly cousin. Petyr promised he wouldn’t leave her alone. He lied.

She danced three times before telling Robert she needed to rest for a bit. She regretted that decision instantly when she saw Joffrey make his way toward her. She had not seen him since that day in Winterfell when he executed her family. Sansa wanted nothing more than to kill him. If she had a dagger right now, she would do it even though it meant her death. Searching for Petyr desperately, she finally stood and bowed low to the king she hated.

“My, my, my,” Joffrey smirked as he stood before her and they onlookers gossiped madly. “So, it is true. Lord Baelish brought his little whore to Kings Landing.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say and only muttered a simple greeting instead.

“Your Majesty.”

Joffrey walked around her slowly, and Sansa felt sick with fear. He was going to publicly throw her out, she knew it. There was nothing Petyr or Robert could do to stop it.

“The last time I saw you, you were laying in the mud,” he chuckled. “After I had your family shot, of course. Who knew a little traitor could be made to be so beautiful. Baelish certainly spent a lot of gold on you, didn’t he?”

“I – I … he made me his ward, Your Majesty,” she said stupidly.

“So I hear,” the blonde king laughed as courtiers stared at them. “Is that what keeping a mistress is called now in the Riverlands? The rumour is, your own family doesn’t want you. How lovely.”

Sansa willed the tears not to come, but she could feel them welling in her eyes. All she wanted to do was disappear – run away from Joffrey, Robert, Petyr… all of them. She kept quiet and did not try to defend herself. It would not do her any good.

Joffrey leaned in close as she felt his breath on her ear and tried not to shudder.

“What I should do is fuck you in the next room. I don’t remember you being this beautiful,” he sneered viciously as Sansa trembled. “Tell me, how do you like that old cock of his? Do you let him do degrading things to you? Does he fuck you like the northern dog you are?”

“Lady Sansa?” she heard Robert’s voice.

Joffrey stepped away and smiled horribly at the little duke who was half his size. Petyr’s laughter was coming closer as he was drinking and joking with two men she did not recognize.

“Oh, there she is,” he laughed and suddenly took notice of Joffrey. “Your Majesty, congratulations on your marriage. Queen Margery is beyond compare. A true queen worthy of our king.”

 _A true queen_.

That hurt. It hurt because Petyr said it. She knew that’s what everyone thought. She was never worthy of being Joffrey’s queen. Petyr sounded as if he was drunk already and having a marvelous time. Now he was insulting her, even if he didn’t know it.

“Lord Baelish,” Joffrey smirked at the drunken lord. “You and I must speak privately. I will send for you shortly. I need to speak to my wife.”

Sansa released the breath she was holding. Joffrey was leaving. At least he wasn’t throwing her out at this moment. If she had the chance, she would run. Petyr be damned, but Joffrey’s next words filled her with dread.

“I will deal with you later, _Lady_ Sansa,” Joffrey offered with malice before he walked away.

“Now you’ve done it, Baelish. I never took you for this such a fool to bring a girl like that here. I don’t care how pretty she is,” one man chided.

“Especially, in front of Lord Royce… and the king,” the other japed. “Are you trying to get exiled? Harrenhal can’t be that terrible, man. For God’s sake, keep your mistresses where they belong.”

That was it. That was her breaking point. Sansa gathered her skirts and ran outside to one of the terraces. This time Petyr did not follow to comfort her. It was Robert that slowly made his way outside and sat down next to her.

“I don’t like King Joffrey,” he whispered, afraid someone might hear. “He was very rude to you.” Robert hesitated for a moment, but Sansa knew what he was going to ask. “You’re not really Uncle Petyr’s mistress, are you?”

Sansa sniffed and wiped her eyes finally looking at her little cousin.

“No,” she told him what she thought was the truth. Frankly, she didn’t know what she was anymore.

“Good,” he breathed. “Because I want you to marry me. I knew you weren’t a whore like Mother said. If Uncle Petyr marries Lady Myranda, then you can marry me, and we’ll be happy. You’ll see. I won’t let anyone say bad things about you.”

Sansa couldn’t help but smile. Robert could be a spoiled little brat at times, but he did seem to genuinely care about her.

“Come, we’ll go find Mother and take you home,” Robert offered as Sansa smiled sadly, following him back into the ballroom.

They wandered into a few different rooms and couldn’t find Lysa anywhere. Everywhere they went, ladies giggled, and gentlemen leered. They whispered and gossiped at the young boy and the marquess’ mistress. She saw Petyr and Myranda briefly as he danced with his new wife and all of the sudden the rooms became too hot. Robert said he was going to look for his mother, and Sansa told him she would wait for him out on the terrace. She was sure she was going to vomit and wanted him to leave her alone.

Sansa didn’t know how long she had been out there when the cold finally forced her inside wondering where Robert disappeared to. Maybe he had changed his mind, or Lysa forced him to leave abandoning her here.

She tried to sneak back in, hoping not to attract attention. She did not have a chaperone now, and wandering around alone wasn’t proper. She shouldn’t care about etiquette, but being alone was safe. Not for someone like her. Joffrey’s threat loomed over her and Sansa prayed to avoid him.

If Sansa could just get out, she would walk all the way back to Petyr’s townhouse. Immediately, she chastised herself for being stupid. She didn’t know Kings Landing, and it was a reasonable distance by carriage. She’d never make there on foot without freezing to death in this dress. Not only that, she would probably be raped and murdered before getting halfway there. Where the hell was Robert?

A gloved hand pulled her into the crowd, making Sansa yelp. When she saw who it belonged to, she tried to yank her hand away.

“You haven’t danced with me yet, tonight.”

 

 

  
  


 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew.... here it is. I hope it reads the way it played out in my head. I guess we'll see. I had to rewrite because I didn't like how it flowed.
> 
> This is nowhere near finished... there is so much more happening once they get back to Harrenhal. I hope you're ready for another crazy ride to WTF Town. This isn't over by a long shot and the roller coaster just started.
> 
> Can't believe we're at the halfway mark....

 

[ ](https://postimages.org/)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Petyr practically hauled Sansa into his arms, forcing her to dance with him. It was a waltz so he could keep her close. Petyr knew every eye would be on them and that’s what he needed.

_Witnesses_

She floated like an angel as he glided her around with the other dancers. No woman could compare to her. Her dress glittered like the sun on winter’s first frost. The gossip was everywhere and they didn’t attempt to whisper. Petyr could see Robert’s smile for he seemed to be happy that only the two of them danced with Sansa. Myranda and her father glared as other lords and ladies shook their heads in disapproval. Petyr felt her stiffen and try to pull away aware of the many eyes upon them.

“Am I such a terrible dancer, sweetling?” he breathed into her ear and she smelled like sweet honeysuckle.

“They’re staring. You’re already in trouble,” she muttered. “Why are you doing this?”

“How could I not dance with you tonight? I can’t let young Robert take all the enjoyment,” he smiled.

“Lord Royce… Myranda. They’re not pleased,” Sansa whispered as he spun her around. “I saw you quarrelling.”

“Is that what you saw?” he grinned, holding her tighter. “I do believe she was quite happy with the ring presently adorning her finger. I told her the duke requested your presence and you wouldn’t keep me monopolized all night.”

“None of them want me here,” she tensed in his arms. “Joffrey… he – _I want to leave_. I can go now and send the carriage back for you. _Please_.”

“Robert will be very displeased,” Petyr pressured. It wouldn’t be long now. He just needed to keep her with him a little while longer.

“I don’t care. I’ll make my excuses that I feel ill. _Please, Petyr, please_ ,” she whimpered again and Petyr looked down at her blue eyes brimming with tears. It tore his heart out what he was doing, but it was done now. Before the night was out, he will have put on his best performance before leaving this dreadful city.

Petyr wanted so much to kiss those tears away but held himself in check. Gratefully, the timely interruption came as a few guards came rushing in requesting the king’s presence. All of the ballroom was a chatter with some sort of accident. Joffrey and Margery left down a long corridor and the music stopped. Robert bounded over to them and took Sansa’s hand as everyone gossiped about what had just transpired.

Petyr waited impatiently as Myranda came to his side pulling him slightly away from Sansa. Then it happened and the crowd of lords and ladies came alive with shock.

“She’s dead!”

“The Duchess, Lady Arryn has fallen from the balcony!”

The whispers became louder and louder and Petyr looked at Robert. He was holding onto Sansa as if his life depended on it. The two locked eyes and Petyr felt a twinge of regret for the boy.

“Uncle Petyr, what are saying?” the young duke cried with fear written all over his face. “It is a mistake, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, Robert. Surely it must be a mistake,” he knelt down taking the boy’s hands.

The Lord Chamberlain made his way towards them, followed by Queen Margery and her ladies in waiting. Yes, Joffrey would send women to tell the young duke his mother was dead.

Margery stood staring at the terrified boy and glanced at Sansa then Petyr. Her face was unreadable once again but Petyr kept still and quiet.

“Lord Robert, I’m afraid there’s been a tragic accident,” the old man muttered without a hint of tenderness until the queen interrupted.

“Your mother, she fell…” Margery said but couldn’t finish as the boy cried out and wrapped his skinny arms around Sansa’s waist.

His sweetling didn’t falter as she knelt down and hugged the sobbing young duke. The crowd whispered non-stop as the scene unfolded before them. The gossip of the night other than the Stark girl was the murder of Sir Harrold and now the duchess was dead.

Petyr had not seen Lady Waynwood anywhere and guessed she had stayed home tonight. Lysa had been drinking heavily and to Petyr’s luck, was seen flirting heavily with younger men. The chatter had been something to the effect that she was drinking her sorrows away over the death of the handsome, young ward.

Robert clearly had not been told considering his demeanor tonight. All the men were japing at the duchess’ desperation by her appearance and obvious intoxication. Others were talking about the insult of her niece being here tonight and clearly trying to get her claws into the young and naïve duke.

Petyr rested a comforting hand on the boy’s head and looked to Myranda with a look of shock.

“Your Majesty it cannot be… what happened?” Petyr asked gently as the boy sobbed.

“Lord Baelish, we’re not certain. She was found on the terrace below. She must have fallen from the balcony from one of the empty parlors. Her… neck was broken. There’s nothing that could have been done,” Margery explained as she watched the boy cry in his cousin’s arms.

“Lord Baelish, has Lady Sansa been with you all evening?” the Lord Chamberlain finally asked and Petyr knew it was a possibility but before he could reply Robert cried out.

“She was with me all night. She would never do such a thing,” he wailed forgetting etiquette altogether of whom he was speaking to.

“I attest; Lady Sansa has been with either His Grace or me this evening. We were just dancing a moment ago, in fact,” Petyr offered easiliy. “The duchess is, I mean _was_ , Lady Sansa’s beloved aunt.” Robert wailed again for all to witness.

“Of course she couldn’t, my dear boy. I can’t imagine this girl hurting a soul,” Margery smiled, kneeling down. Whatever Joffrey and his creed were, at least Margery had a breath of heart and decency. “Lord Baelish, the boy seems to be comforted by you, perhaps you should…”

“Your Majesty, your husband the king, wishes to speak with Lord Baelish, and I don’t think it’s fitting that…” Lord Tyrell touched his daughter’s shoulder but his eyes never left Sansa. “Well, the duke needs someone more, _trustworthy_ given the circumstances. A mistress is hardly the companionship the boy needs. First, the Hardyng boy and now Lady Arryn…”

Petyr saw Sansa’s head pop up at that and looked at him with a questioning and Petyr willed her be silent. However, Lord Royce came to rescue as Petyr hoped he might. This was a perfect opportunity for Royce and Petyr knew it.

“Your Majesty, Your Grace,” Lord Royce bowed deeply. “If I may be of service. I’ve known Lady Arryn and young Robert for many years…he is like a grandson to me.”

“Yes,” Margery smiled, “Thank you Lord Royce. If you would take charge of the boy for now.”

Lord Royce pulled at Robert making him howl louder as he held onto Sansa.

“No!” he cried. “I don’t want to go with him. I don’t like Lord Royce at all. I want to stay with Uncle Petyr and Sansa!”

Petyr knelt down and ran his fingers through the boy’s hair and shushed him softly but he wouldn’t budge from his cousin.

“Your Grace… Robert, look at me,” Petyr spoke softly, and the boy finally looked at him, his face red and puffy. “I need you to go with Lord Royce right now.”

Robert shook his head violently as Petyr tried to calm him again, pulling the boy into his arms. Petyr chanced a glance at Sansa, and she was visibly shaken by the ordeal. There was sadness for Robert but also fear in her eyes as everyone stared at them. She knew they were suspecting her right now. Her chest was wet from Robert’s tears as Petyr gave the boy his handkerchief.

“No, I want to go with you,” the boy cried again.

“I will see you very soon, I promise,” Petyr shushed him quietly. “The king needs to speak with me, and we’ll need to take care of your mother – to bring her home.”

The boy wailed again, and Petyr patted his back, seeing the impatience on the senior lord’s face.

“Come, you’re a grown man now,” he whispered to Robert. “You’re the Duke of the Vale. You need to be strong. Do it for me and Lady Sansa. There will be plenty of time to grieve, my boy.”

Robert raised his head and sniffed. Looking around the room made it all the more clear to Petyr that the only one who cared Lysa was dead was her only son.

“Will you do that for me?” Petyr asked, wiping his tears. “Be a good lad and go with Lord Royce. I will see you when the king is finished with me.”

“You promise?” Robert sniveled.

“Yes, I promise,” Petyr smiled sadly. He pulled the boy up and guided him to Lord Royce, who appeared just a little too smug at his good fortune. Petyr had to refrain from smiling.

“Lord Royce, would you be so good to escort Lady Sansa home,” Petyr asked politely after giving Myranda a kiss on the cheek.

“No, Baelish. Haven’t you insulted my daughter and I enough for one evening?” Royce retorted while the whispers struck a chord and Petyr saw a smirk on Tyrell’s face. “I have no room in my carriage for a whore. Come, Myranda.”

“Father, I do wish to stay until Petyr returns,” Myranda smiled sweetly. She knew if she left now the engagement would surely be over, and she was pushing to keep that title and money. They were all playing their carefully crafted parts.

“Actually, I must insist no one leave for the moment,” the Lord Chamberlain spoke up. “There must be an inquiry, of course.”

“Surely, you can’t mean His Grace would be involved in his beloved mother’s death. Nor I for that matter, I have been…” Lord Royce objected as Petyr smiled on the inside.

“Lord Royce, take the boy upstairs, and I’ll have my doctor see to him,” Queen Margery insisted sweetly. “You may take him home afterward.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Royce bowed again and pulling Robert with him. “Myranda, come with me now.”

Myranda glanced at Sansa before taking Petyr’s hands, kissing him lightly. “I’ll come back down once he’s calmed down,” she whispered, and frankly Petyr didn’t care at all. He certainly didn’t like leaving Sansa all alone to fend for herself, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask Myranda to watch her. Not after her father’s public denouncement of him and his supposed mistress.

Sansa stood dumbfounded while Petyr knew he shouldn’t say a word to her in front of everyone and betray himself. Myranda followed her father and Sansa froze in fear. Petyr felt terrible for the girl. He hoped this meeting would be quick, but he couldn’t rush this. She stared at him, silently begging him not to leave her.

“Lord Baelish, if you’ll follow me. The king is waiting,” Lord Tyrell stated as he turned and walked from the ballroom.

Petyr gave Sansa a look telling her to stay put before he followed the queen and her father replaying tonight’s events in his head.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Petyr pretended to drink heavily for appearances. He perpetuated the air of his foppish persona all evening. Japing with the gentlemen about his lovely wife and the stunning young woman he brought with him. They all thought he was mad, of course.

When he mingled with Myranda, it was completely different. Petyr was suave and lavished considerable attention on his bride. He tried to charm his way with the lords and ladies that openly objected to him and his boisterous ways. Myranda played her role brilliantly as the woman that would conform him into a decent and courtly husband. She desperately wanted to rid herself of her own distasteful reputation as they both found few to socialize while they were politely shunned. Once she was on her own with other ladies or with her father, Petyr noticed the attitude towards Myranda significantly shifted.

Petyr imagined they were telling her and her father to break the engagement. They couldn’t ruin their name by marrying someone like him. A disrespectful man that would have the audacity to bring his mistress to a royal ball, parading her in front of his future wife no less. It was shameful, and surely the king would put a stop to it. It wasn’t just bringing a mistress, it was a Stark in their midst, and they couldn’t stand it.

He danced a few times with Myranda and socialized with more gentlemen before telling them he needed to check on the young duke and his ward or go back to his future bride. Petyr made sure that he was seen and telling people where he was going and playing the joyful drunken dandy.

Keeping a watchful eye on Lysa, she was deep in her cups. She hated he was marrying Myranda, but showing up with Sansa now on two occasions was clearly too much. Lysa glared at him from across the room, but Petyr only smiled and winked back pretending not to notice her anger.

Later, he purposefully brushed by her, seductively stroking her hand and flashed a brilliant smile. Lysa was drunk already as Petyr knew her too well. He whispered in her ear to meet him in an empty parlor at the end of the corridor in twenty minutes. She wouldn’t refuse him, he smiled to himself.

Glancing at the clock on the mantel while he japed with three men, Petyr excused himself to go find his ward and the young duke in the next room. Ducking out of sight, he waited until the hallway was empty and opened the last door on the left, quickly hiding in the shadows of the room. It was long when a door slammed shut, announcing the duchess’ arrival.

“You bastard! Your ward? You made her your bloody ward?” Lysa yelled hurling a book at him from across the dark room.

“For God’s sake, woman, lower your voice. Do you want the entire court to hear?” Petyr admonished Lysa, taking long strides to her side.

“You just had to do it, didn’t you? You couldn’t have Cat, so you fucked her damned daughter instead,” she sneered and tried to pull away when he grasped her arms.

“Think of it as a little revenge,” Petyr smiled, kissing her powdered cheek.

“I’m not stupid, Petyr. I saw the way you looked at her that night at the Eyrie,” she pushed at him but he wouldn’t let go.

“Beauty is all she has in her favor. The girl became my responsibility quite by accident, I assure you. Edmure had lost Riverrun to a couple of ruffians when I was on my way home from Lannisport. I couldn’t let him lose your family’s home, so I won it back, much to Edmure’s displeasure. He cannot endure the thought of me saving him from himself. And the girl? Well, Edmure clearly didn’t want her, but he didn’t want me to take her either. You should have seen the look on his face. There was nothing he could do. I took everything from him. You know he wanted to help Cat against your wishes. But in the end, he was the coward we always knew him to be. He needed your money more… to gamble away. Your family home is a wreck, Lysa,” he explained, bringing his mouth very close to her jaw.

“Edmure was always a sentimental fool. I don’t care if he drowns in his own urine. Why did you bring her here?” she demanded, but her breath hitched slightly when Petyr nipped at her neck.

“You didn’t tell me Sansa and Myranda were friends. The Royce’s came to Harrenhal and apparently Myranda thought it was kind of me to take the girl in. I was going to send Sansa to a convent in Sisterton yet when Myranda insisted I bring her to Kings Landing, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with the girl. You can’t believe how thrilled I was to hear Harrold was interested in marrying her. I thought you might have put him up to it,” he kissed her neck softly.

“That ruddy brunette made friends with my niece just to make sure she had more access to my home. That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing with her. Why make her your ward?” Lysa growled.

“Come now, darling. You know I’ve had mistresses in the past. What’s one more? I’m to be an old married man, soon,” he peppered kisses along her jaw and felt her weaken just a bit. “I was so bored at Harrenhal. I needed a little entertainment, and you were so far away.  I was planning to get rid of her before Myranda came, but she said they were old and true friends. Myranda is so naïve of these things. I told her the ton wouldn’t approve of Sansa in the capital but my bride wouldn’t hear of it. She wanted a friend here since she doesn’t have any, given her reputation, of course.”

“You brought Sansa here to prove to your future wife that befriending her was a mistake?” Lysa scoffed. “What revenge was that?”

“Mmmm, revenge on Cat and Edmure for treating me… and you, so terribly,” he chuckled against her sickly sweet and wrinkling skin. “I divested Cat’s precious daughter of her honor and swindled Edmure out of his inheritance. He was not pleased.”

“How do you know I sent Harry to ask for her hand?” she stared at him suspiciously.

“Oh my love, I know you so well. We think alike. Myranda was supposed to join us at the opera last night but felt ill. I saw you were unhappy about seeing me with your niece. Not to mention you were sitting with Lady Waynwood in your box. When Harry suddenly showed up, granted he had met Sansa a week ago by accident and had been wooing her ever since, I figure he wouldn’t have asked if he did not have permission from Waynwood or yourself,” Petyr smiled and pulled Lysa back to him. “I did agree, you know. I invited him to Black’s that night, and we had it all settled. I had the papers all written up. Such a tragedy, he did not heed my advice.”

“What advice?”

“He was winning by a fair margin when I left last night. I told him to be careful of the other patrons, that they would rob him blind. Beginners luck only goes so far. From what I hear, he drunkenly tried to go home on his own,” Petyr frowned. “A fatal mistake. These thieves, why must they resort to murder? They should have just taken the money and run. Now, I suppose I’ll have to send Sansa off to a convent after all. I rather hoped to get a good price for her tonight. There’s always some man that wants a pretty girl.”

“So that’s why she’s dolled up this evening?” the woman chuckled slapping him playfully.

“Had I known Robert would be here tonight, I would have thought against it. I forgot about his affection towards the girl,” Petyr lied.

“He is young and mawkish, but that willfulness will be dealt with later,” Lysa seethed and Petyr knew the boy would be better off without her in the end. “He’s never spoken to me like that before. That damned girl always brings trouble. I didn’t want to cause a scene in front of the king and queen.”

“No,” he japed. “I seem to have done well at that tonight. A huge mistake on my part. Let’s not talk about anything else.” He kissed her roughly and quickly she responded. “This is all I want right now. Soon, I’ll have an excuse to travel to the Vale more often.”

“You’re a lying devil,” Lysa sighed as he moved behind her, kissing her neck and massaging her breasts. “You’ll be fucking that Royce girl like the little whore she is.”

Petyr grunted, not from lust, but from her perfume. The scent made him sick.

“I wouldn’t put my cock in her for all the gold in the world,” he chuckled. “I know who and how many she’s been with. She can fuck whomever she likes. We have an agreement. If she gets with child, then I’ll call it mine. I just don’t want to die from Syphilis, thank you. I have better uses for my cock.”

Lysa rutted back against him as his hands moved from her breasts to caress her collar bone and the base of her neck.

“Did Lady Waynwood know her ward was vying for Sansa’s hand or was that just a brilliant move by you and dear Harry?” he inquired as he continued his ministrations.

“No, it was my move. Anya knows nothing. Never did. I told Harry I’d pay him well if he spirited her away. Harry is nothing, and no one. Who would care if Waynwood’s ward married my niece? Nobody. I was angry at you when I heard you brought the damned girl with you,” she moaned.

“Why not just have her killed or ask me to get rid of her myself? Have you lost all your faith in me?” he smiled.

“Well, it’s me or her, my love,” Lysa breathed heavy in lust. “Without me, you’re nothing. Remember that. I hold the power here and I’m tired of your games and trysts with other women. You’re mine, do you hear?”

“Oh yes, you do hold a power over me. You could break me with a single word. There is one thing, my dearest,” Petyr’s voice soothed as he kissed her earlobe and caressing her throat. “When you wage war against me, you best know the consequences of losing.”

Before she could react to his words, Petyr’s hands jerked Lysa’s head breaking her neck instantly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Petyr followed Margery down a corridor that led to the throne room and where the king’s advisors met along with the Privy Council. He was quite familiar in this part of the palace, spending years in Kings Landing to enhance ways of financing the realm and Joffrey’s war against the Duke of Winterfell.

He had made Joffrey and many high lords of the court very wealthy indeed and was one of the masterminds – blocking all aid to Lord Stark’s rebellion. Petyr’s trade agreements with other countries only brought more wealth and goods to Westeros, expanding their empire even though they lost the western colonies across the sea. Despite holding his lowly beginnings against him, Petyr had made himself indespenible.

They were nearing the king’s council chamber when Petyr steadied himself. After throwing Lysa’s dead body over the balustrade, Petyr didn’t wait to see where she landed. He had precious little time to get back to the ballroom to find Sansa and be _seen_. Myranda would question why he suddenly wished to dance. Sansa, however, would not have said a word unless she was already with Robert. It was best to be witnessed by everyone, and making a scene with Sansa was the better option.

Luckily, Petyr found her alone when he dragged her with him. Since Lysa was already dead, without a scream or noise to rouse suspicion, he had only to wait. Now it depended on how quickly the duchess was found.

Dancing with Sansa took Petyr’s mind off everything for a moment. She was the loveliest creature. The ton hated her, but they were also envious. If the girl had been plain, they could have ignored her, but she was more beautiful than Aphrodite herself. The ladies loathed her for it. The men would have taken her to bed if they had the chance despite her traitorous family. They knew it, and so did Petyr.

With Robert’s outburst and so many witnesses, Petyr hoped the impression was that he never left the room. Dancing with Sansa now had every eye on him, just as he wanted. A distraction. No one would honestly believe the fool could be a murderer, especially killing a woman. Petyr was about to find out just how well he could lie and maneuver out of this.

Petyr and Margery entered the empty chamber where Joffrey sat with a decanter of wine, and it appeared to Petyr he had quite a bit to drink. The boy king gestured for him to sit across the table and Petyr smiled sitting down as if it were any other meeting with either of them. When his queen attempted to sit, Joffrey waved her off as her father took a chair near the king.

“This conversation is no place for a woman,” Joffrey slurred a bit.

Margery, without question, removed herself from the room. Petyr detected a hint of anger behind her eyes. Perhaps, she had learned all too quickly what being queen really meant.

“Lord Baelish, there are a few things that must be discussed that are quite troubling,” Lord Tyrell began somberly, looking to the young king to his right. Petyr was right, Joffrey was already drunk. Perhaps this might be easier than he thought. However, with Lord Tyrell in the room, Petyr had to be careful.

“Yes, a terrible tragedy tonight. Please tell me what I can do to be of service to you, Your Majesty,” Petyr offered sincerely.

“I really don’t care about the duchess to be quite honest, but I’m told we must be thorough,” he groaned as if this bored him to pieces.

Petyr wondered if this was  Joffrey’s idea to meet. Margery seemed meek, but appearances could be deceiving. Perhaps the Tyrell’s were keen observers considering the Riverlands were expected to become more profitable than the Reach in a few seasons.

“I’m curious as to the nature of her death, of course. Lord Baelish, you knew Lady Arryn well, from childhood I understand. Do you believe her capable of suicide?” Tyrell asked, pouring himself a glass of wine.

“As you stated, I fostered with Lysa and her siblings as a child. I knew her as well as anyone, I would suppose Your Grace,” he said. “Suicide? I honestly don’t know. She has become more melancholy over the years since her husband’s demise. Could it have been just an unfortunate accident? She had been drinking heavily with a few gentlemen, I noticed tonight.”

“Hmph,” Joffrey snorted into his cup. “They would have to be soused to be around _that_.”

Petyr shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows slightly.

“I would rather not besmirch the duchess’ reputation now that she is gone,” Petyr hedged.

“She’s dead. What does it matter now?” Joffrey crossed.

“I knew she took lovers after the duke died,” Petyr started cautiously, absently playing with the lace of his sleeve and pretending to admire his new ruby ring for Lord Tyrell was watching keenly. “Could she have been meeting someone for a tryst? With whom, I haven’t the faintest clue, of course.”

“Young Robert seems quite taken with you and calls you _uncle_ ,” Tyrell added. “I’m rather surprised you had not attempted to marry her, with your ambitions. You seem to spend enough time in the Vale.”

“Lysa?” Petyr laughed pompously, bringing the lace handkerchief to his mouth. “Oh no, we’re only childhood friends, nothing more. Any affection I had for her was _brotherly_. God knows her own siblings were never supportive. Well, if you had a drunken, gambling fool for one and a traitor for the other…” Petyr shrugged, sighing as if the topic tired him. “I adored Lysa. Poor Robert’s never really had any father figure in his life. I can see why he has formed an attachment. Lysa always treated me with kindness and respect despite my humble beginnings. I owe a great many things to her, in fact.”

“Yes, I do remember it was the duchess that heralded your money-making achievements to my father before you came to Kings Landing,” Joffrey smirked. “You have proved yourself to be very useful in many ways Lord Baelish other than finance. I don’t pretend to care about your personal habits, but that will be discussed momentarily.”

Petyr played the fop, exaggerating his expressions of surprise while pouring a glass of wine. Surely, Lord Tyrell had doubted Petyr’s manhood on many occasions by his expensive clothes and activities.

 “We have two deaths in a short frame of time, Lord Baelish,” the king began. “You seem to hear enough whispers and gossip in your travels and dealings. You’ve been instrumental in finding our enemies over the years including, of course, Stark’s rebellion, for which I have shown great generosity.”

“And I am eternally grateful for the favor you have bestowed on me. I live to serve,” Petyr raised his glass with a grin.

“Did Lady Arryn throw herself off that balcony tonight?” Tyrell finally asked.

“Heavens, no! I do protest such a notion!” Petyr brought the handkerchief back to his mouth in mock astonishment.

“I admit, I made a mistake regretfully bring Lady Sansa here tonight… at the young duke’s request. He has been rather fond of the girl for some time,” Petyr blathered on in his fake persona “Poor Robert doesn’t, ahem, perform well socially speaking. If fact, he makes himself quite ill from the stress of it. He feels at ease with his little cousin.”

Petyr acted nonchalant, sniffing his wine. “Lysa was not pleased, and I feel I insulted her by the gesture. She never did like her niece even after agreeing to take her in, hence sending her to foster at Riverrun with her brother over a year ago. I didn’t know until tonight that Robert had formed such an unhealthy attachment to her. He is young and doesn’t know any better. Lysa is a strong woman, I can’t imagine her committing suicide out of embarrassment over her son and Sansa.”

“Then a lover?” the queen’s father inquired.

“As I said before, I wouldn’t know. I say you will have trouble finding any man admitting to it,” Petyr laughed heartily, finding a smirk on Joffrey’s face.

“Would anyone have reason to murder her? With Sir Harrold’s death, it seems rather odd that suddenly the duchess would befall such an accident. Since there are no witnesses, and it isn’t just some nameless courtier. This is the death of the Duchess of the Vale,” Tyrell pushed a little harder.

Petyr held his cards close and decided on his options.

“I quite agree,” he said. “No man is going to admit a romantic involvement that turned badly, even if it were an accident. Did no one hear a scream or a struggle? There must have been someone outside.”

“A footman found her body. No one heard anything, it appears,” Tyrell offered. “She was still warm, I was told, so it must have happened recently.”

“Appears so,” Petyr yawned.

“Are we finished yet?” Joffrey whined. “I’m going to die of boredom and then some other twat will inherit my crown.”

“Give me a moment, sire,” Tyrell tried to piece things together. He was a terrible gambler and easy to read, Petyr smiled inwardly. “Hardyng…”

“The Waynwood boy?” Petyr muttered, tapping his fingers on the lacquered table.

“He was at Black’s the night he died. My son and I were just leaving, if you recall. You may have been the last to speak with him,” Tyrell played that night back in his mind.

“Oh dear!” Petyr chuckled. “The first time I’ve lost in ages. You left too early, Mace. You would have witnessed hell freezing over!”

“The lad is dead, sir. His body found in an alley. Robbed and murdered,” Tyrell scowled. “Lady Waynwood is beside herself. Lady Arryn would have known…”

“Are you suggesting they were lovers?” Petyr said aghast.

Shocked, Tyrell, tried to recover, “No, of course not. Only she might have been overcome with grief.”

“Over Waynwood’s ward?” Petyr scoffed, leading the man gently. “The boy was ridiculous. He wanted to marry my little ward, can you believe it? Young men think with their cock when it comes to a pretty girl, do they not? I suppose men without titles, can be so frivolous in their desires. Lady Waynwood would have disinherited him. No house would be open to him, as I tried to convince him that night. In the end, the idiot walked home with a full purse and mugged by a dirty thief – or so I heard tonight. Terrible gossip this evening, I must say. Now, I need to find the girl another husband as my own wedding nears. So frustrating.”

“Sir Harrold was to marry the traitor?” Joffrey howled.

“Oh yes, I still have the papers. Saved me a bit of money though. No man will take a wife without a damned dowry, these days,” Petyr chortled. “And to think I won the girl from Edmure? I suppose it wouldn’t have cost me much in the end. Pretty girls can be useful in many ways….but once the thrill is gone…”

“Lord Baelish!”

Petyr glanced vacantly between Joffrey’s dirty sneer and Lord Tyrell’s disgust. Tyrell might be a social climber himself but he still had respect for the old ways of the peerage. Lord Stark and his family had an impeccable reputation, before deemed traitors to the crown.

“What? Should I have sent her to a brothel, instead?” Petyr shrugged like a fool. “A pretty thing like that is better placed as a mistress, definitely not a wife. Yes, you’re quite right. Hardyng was a complete fool…”

“And Lysa, as you said, did not like her niece. She and Lady Waynwood would never have approved of such a marriage. Now, Sir Harrold is dead,” Lord Tyrell thought in haste and even Petyr had to blink as to the connection the man had made.

Petyr paused for a moment before bursting into laughter, “Oh Mace, the japes you make. I’m shocked at you, sir. The duchess is not yet cold, and yet you make her out as a murderer? Over a frilly little girl?”

This time, Joffrey joined in and Lord Tyrell had turned beet red from the insinuation. Petyr had to give the man credit, he did think of the same thing earlier in the day as a possible motive.

“Oh, please, enthrall us with such a dastardly plot! Did our sweet duchess use a pistol or dagger?” Petyr laughed it up. “Tyrell, you would have never made a good constable.”

The old man’s face sobered, “But I am a good listener, and I know the Hardyng boy stood to inherit if young Robert dies. We all know the boy is not of good health. That woman, if anything, was staunchly protective of her son.”

That shocked Petyr. Perhaps, he underestimated the Tyrells. He remembered telling Sansa that the old Dowager was of sharp mind. She would know the other ladies well. That old bird probably knew more than Petyr thought as they were apt to find Margery a smart match. Harrold was too much of a gamble, but not for Royce. He had tried several times to marry Myranda to the blonde to no avail and settled on Petyr instead.

“Come now, no future Duke of the Vale would marry a Stark traitor, no matter how sweet her cunt is,” Joffrey smirked, drinking his wine but the other two men weren’t laughing now.

“What do we know of Sir Harrold’s loyalties, my king?” Tyrell asked.

“A lowly knight? Who cares to know someone like him?” Joffrey scoffed again. “He was nothing if the boy lived and now he’s dead.”

Petyr chose his words very carefully, “Someone that knew to marry the last Stark could gain an advantage with the northern clans? Edmure would have never allowed it, but a desperate patron as I… I was stupidly ready to be rid of her. I was hoping tonight, another might take an interest in the girl.”

Petyr watched the men closely and then chuckled, “No, no, no. Lysa would have made sure that never happened. She is loyal to our king.”

Now Joffrey, wasn’t laughing any longer. “Was she? Her own sister…”

“Lysa nor Edmure helped their sister or her husband. Had they, I daresay this conversation might not be happening right now,” Petyr grinned in satisfaction. “And we’re all the wealthier for it. Young Harrold was no political mastermind, he saw a pretty face and had to have her. I doubt even he knew his lineage to the Vale. I give you full marks, Mace. You’re full of surprises with that detecting mind of yours.”

“Yet he is dead and so is Lady Lysa,” Tyrell drummed his fingers, not letting the matter go. “Who gains from the duchess’ death?”

 “Her sick and idiotic son, of course,” Joffrey piped up gleefully as if he were the smartest person in the room.

“True, Your Majesty, but Robert loved his mother very much as we all could see,” Petyr added soberly. “He is devastated. Not to mention, he is already duke. Lysa would have control over him for only a little while longer. Not to sound unsympathetic, but it is young Robert’s life that should be of consideration now. Would it be inconceivable that the person responsible for his mother’s murder might have plans for the boy?”

“Who inherits if he dies?” Joffrey asked out of morbid curiosity.

“After Hardyng?” Petyr offered, waiting to see if Tyrell could put it together. “You have proved yourself the master of the gentry lineage are you not? I’m afraid I’m a man of gold and beauty, not intrigue. I haven’t the mind for it.”

Joffrey choked out a laugh drinking his wine as Petyr smiled into his.

“Your current bride was once betrothed to young Hardyng, wasn’t he?” Tyrell puzzled it out finally and Petyr started to breathe easy. “Yes, I do remember Royce desperately trying to marry the girl off.”

Petyr chuckled, “Well, his daughter would be a lonely widow by now. I suppose she’ll have to settle for me. Nestor probably would have preferred her duchess than marchioness, but I paid heavily for her hand. At least I should get a few children out of it…with a respectable family name. Now, it seems I may be saddled to foster little Robert too. I suppose his mother’s death might toughen him up a bit.”

“Royce is an ancient house. You may have thought you bought your way into it, Baelish, but I feel Nestor may not be as desperate now. He will foster the boy, not you. If the lad dies, then I feel the king will have a strong ally in the Vale. I do believe he will inherit, don’t you agree Your Majesty?”

There! It was about time. Petyr thought his arse would go numb waiting for the man to figure it out. However, Tyrell didn’t seem to think it odd that Royce would inherit so much in so little time. Any other sound mind would question Lord Royce’s motivations. Obviously, Petyr gave the man too much credit earlier. Joffrey, however, sat like a drunken lump, just as Petyr expected.

“Well, well, Nestor stands to gain the dukedom he always wanted and finally married off his daughter for a handsome price all because Lysa took a nasty fall and the other mugged. How fortunate for him. Well, it seems to me, the mystery has been solved!” Petyr smiled and moved to stand and excuse himself.

“Not so fast, Lord Baelish, sit down,” Joffrey ordered. “There is another matter, which Lord Mace has succinctly pointed out truths, that I must say, bother me.”

Petyr gave his most convincing pretense of knowing nothing was amiss. “I say one might want to ask Royce about Lady Lysa, but if I can be of further use….”

“Baelish, as I’ve said before, I’ve been quite generous with you. How a man such as you is so gifted with gold and numbers, I’ll never understand, but you have been instrumental in my defeat of Lord Stark and keeping my treasury filled,” Joffrey began but Petyr knew it was coming. He could see it in the boy’s eyes.

“However good a servant you’ve been to me, does not excuse how you insult me now,” Joffrey’s eyes squinted with glee.

“I would never…” Petyr attempted to protest but Tyrell stopped him.

“Are you that obtuse, sir? Since I’ve become advisor to the king, I must say, I have had reservations about you handling all finances and being on the Privy Council…. It does not give you leave to do as you please!”

“Osgrey, is just upset he owes me a few hundred and that I debauched his wife – as if the man doesn’t have two mistresses. I’ve done nothing worse than…”

“You brought Stark’s daughter here, you fool! You’ve insulted us all with your antics,” Tyrell fumed as Joffrey watched Petyr’s reaction carefully.

Petyr could only laugh, “Her? She’s harmless. I have a weakness for a pretty face. I won her at a very lucky hand at Riverrun. I thought I would have a little adventure before my marriage or maybe keep her as a mistress….”

This time Joffrey stopped him and Petyr wondered if he overplayed his hand.

“As I said, I honestly don’t care the duchess is dead. She was a horrid woman and even worse to deal with. Royce may very well be the strong man I need to keep the Vale in check. That brat is useless to me if he’s not loyal. If I grant Royce stewardship, he would be grateful indeed.”

“Oh yes, quite,” Tyrell chimed in. Petyr knew neither of them would care in the slightest if it were proven that Lord Royce murdered both Harrold and Lysa. They had the man they needed and Petyr started to worry a bit. Everything he said from this point on had to be carefully constructed.

“Which brings me to you,” Joffred frowned.

“I? Not loyal? My king, when have I ever steered you wrong?” Petyr pleaded innocently.

“Margery and her father have helped me see that having disreputable men so close to me, reflects upon me,” Joffrey started and Petyr had to keep from laughing. Joffrey had three mistresses that he knew of and Margery’s brother, Loras had a taste for men. Mace was a complete idiot, Petyr surmised.

“I have turned a blind eye to your lecherous ways, but this is too far. I bestowed Harrenhal and your title as a gift and I can easily take it away,” Joffrey sneered. “Sansa is nothing but a traitorous whore that is lucky she didn’t die with her family. I kept her alive only to keep the north under control. Her own family wants nothing to do with her…”

Petyr lowered his head in mock shame, “Stupidly, I thought since the girl recanted… well, she isn’t useful in any other way. I have no love for Lord Tully, I suppose I took the girl out of a sense of a little revenge.”

 “Yet you have escorted her around my city, to my opera, insulting me with her presence,” Joffrey huffed like a child denied a sweet. “I may have pardoned her but that doesn’t mean I want her anywhere near civilized society. She should go back to the north where her wild kind belongs.”

“I apologize if I have offended you, Your Majesty. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I brought the girl because she calms young Robert. Lysa has had quite the troubles with the boy.” Petyr fumbled and rambled on purpose to sound like a nervous man.

“I’ve had many mistresses before… and Lady Myranda did not wish to go to the opera last night. She expressed her anger with me while I vowed to find the girl another home.  I rather hoped to find Lady Sansa a suitor last night as Sir Harrold almost answered my hopes in taking the girl off my hands…”

“She is very beautiful, Lord Baelish,” Joffrey jeered and this was the topic he was clearly waiting for. “I almost forgot since the last time I saw her, except she was covered in mud. It’s a sin for a traitor to be that beautiful. I believe I may have a solution to your problem.”

Petyr paused in fear and dared not show it. Joffrey thinking for himself was not a good thing. The blonde smiled wickedly and downed his glass of wine.

“As you know, I have made Lord Bolton the new Duke of Winterfell. Lady Sansa would make a perfect gift for his son as wife. As I hear it, he has quite the… ruthless reputation with the ladies,” the boy laughed and Petyr’s heart sank. He needed to think quickly.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I don’t know Lord Bolton well and honestly, I don’t care what happens to the girl… but wouldn’t that be a poor gift, a soiled girl, to the man that has been loyal to you and your cause? He did betray Lord Stark and enable you to capture him and his followers. There will be northerners, undoubtedly that are still loyal to her family. I would hate to think of an uprising after all this time. Not to mention, when his son succeeds him, their children will be marred forever with her as a mother. I doubt he would be able to make any decent marriage contracts. Lady Myranda suggested a convent for Sansa. Seems a waste to have a beautiful nun, but there doesn’t seem to be anything else to be done with her.”

“Do you love your future bride, Lord Baelish?” Joffrey cut in with a sickly sweet smile.

“Your Grace?” Petyr’s eyebrows rose expecting this from him and hoped it would lead in the direction he wanted. “We – have a… fondness, I believe for one another. Something I didn’t expect at the time Lord Royce and I made the arrangement…”

“You see, I think you made a brilliant point, Lord Baelish and I do agree,” Tyrell smiled wistfully and turned to Joffrey. “My king, it would be a bad idea to send the girl back north. I think Lord Bolton deserves a better bride with a good name for his son. Keeping the north under control is difficult and we need to keep our alliance strong. I have a better idea.”

 _Here it comes_. Petyr tried his best to look confused and nervous and it seemed to work because both men were quite pleased with themselves.

“Something must be done with Sansa. However, I don’t think a convent so near the north is a good idea either. She must be watched closely by someone loyal to the king. Someone who would never use her against us in fear of losing everything he’s been given,” Joffrey grinned.

“You see, Lord Baelish, you have insulted the king and the loyal lords and ladies with your new little plaything. Your… _weakness_ , and reprehensible behavior needs to be punished. You have been loyal and your deeds have not gone unnoticed. The king has granted you title and power that is best spent in our favor.”

“Your Majesty, in my defense…”

Joffrey raised his hand to halt any further justification.  Petyr took a deep breath awaiting the sentence he pretended to fear.

“Don’t worry, Lord Baelish, I will not strip you of your title and lands... _for now_. You’re more valuable to me doing what you do best. You will return to Harrenhal with your new wife,” the king smiled and paused for a moment. “You will wed your little mistress.”

Petyr acted shocked and offended by the suggestion.

“Your Grace, I am already engaged to Lady Myranda. We are to wed next week. I beg of you, please. I cannot marry that girl. What of my own children? They will never be received by any noble house,” he pleaded.

“But you will have your wealth, position and a pretty little wife, with luck, may already be with your child,” he laughed and Lord Tyrell grinned at the idea. Perhaps Joffrey thought marrying her to a much older man was a suitable punishment.

“You have risen high these past few years and that rise has made you arrogant and rather willfully ignorant to our ways. You will marry your whore and return to Harrenhal. There she will stay. You will never bring her to Kings Landing again. She will never be permitted at court. She will not hold the title of marchioness as if it would grant her anything,” Tyrell added. “The King expects to see progress in the Riverlands next harvest. You must be punished for this slight. We will not grant you the honorable name you seek. Lord Royce and his daughter have been horribly insulted and Royce is more important to the crown than you.”

Petyr lowered his head and nodded.

“Don’t look so glum, Baelish,” Joffrey chided. “You came from nothing and are now a wealthy lord. I have been very generous with you for all that you have done, but Tyrell is right. You are not of noble birth and have gone too far with these depraved ways of yours. Many men have mistresses, but at least they have enough sense not to bed traitor’s daughters… she should be in a brothel, but I agree with Lord Mace. This is a much better answer. Now you can do what you like with her. Just keep her out of my sight.”

“Your Majesty,” Petyr asked solemnly. “May I inquire what is to become of Lady Myranda?”

“Oh, you do care for her, how lovely. It makes this punishment all the sweeter,” Joffrey smirked.

 “I think she will be thrilled to know the king has arranged to make her the future Duchess of Winterfell. A far more prestigious title than Marchioness,” Tyrell said.

“Not only that, she’ll have a younger husband,” Joffrey chimed in. “I’ll leave it to you to tell her the wonderful news. For someone so smart in business and making money, you’ve never mastered the intelligence to thrive in court. Perhaps, you thought you could outwit me with this ploy to marry into an honorable house.”

“Perhaps, you hoped Royce might become duke one day, which certainly would have given you more advantages with his daughter. Now, you are back where you belong, in our control. You may be the Lord of Harrenhal, but you’ll never be one of us.”  
  
Joffrey stood up and clasped his hands in merriment. “Good, that’s finally settled. This has been a waste of my time when I could be fucking my wife. I’d say enjoy your wife, Baelish, but obviously, you already have.”

The boy king strutted out the door and Petyr waited for Tyrell have the final word.

“Lord Baelish, you have the look of a man that was just sentenced to the gallows,” he laughed, finishing the last of his wine. “You may have bested me of twenty-five thousand guineas the other night, but I will have the last laugh. I will send Lord Robert to foster with Lord Royce. I’m sure he will be more loyal now knowing his daughter will become a duchess. If Robert dies, he dies. It’s of no real consequence. You’ve told me everything I needed to know, thank you. Lysa was an awful woman, I doubt many will mourn her. Even Royce had the foresight and stones to murder her, which he doesn’t, I might not even care.”

Tyrell stood and Petyr followed suit. “You will wed the girl tomorrow and leave the capital. No bans will be read. Say your goodbyes to the young duke if you must. I don’t care what you tell him. Continue to prove yourself useful and perhaps you’ll keep your title and lands for your sons to inherit. They will never garner respect as other houses, but no one has truly respected their _father_ either. They’ll learn that one day. They could be living in the gutter or working as peasants. Be grateful for what we’ve allowed you to have. A special license will be made and you will go to directly to Bishop Harcourt tomorrow morning.”

Petyr kept his head down as Tyrell walked around him and out the door. He waited for a few minutes and couldn’t stop the smile on his face. This had worked out better than he planned. His people would look out for Robert and watch Royce. He knew the man wanted power. With Lysa gone, he would have control over the boy and it wouldn’t surprise anyone if the sickly little duke died suddenly. Petyr did not want Royce as duke though. He would do his best to keep Robert safe or his long terms plans would suffer.

It would have been better if the king believed the man was guilty of murder, but overall it didn’t matter. Petyr would make it work in his favor as always. What scared him was Joffrey’s horrific idea of sending Sansa to the Boltons. Good God, she would be better off dead than with any of them. Thank heavens he was able to convince them otherwise.

Both Tyrell and Joffrey thought Petyr talked his way into his own punishment. They didn’t understand how to play these games. Making moves that make no sense or seem to work against you were some of the best ways to play. They had no clue of his motives or intentions. They truly believed he was burdened with the girl, when in fact they played right into his open hands. Petyr got exactly what he wanted.

Making his way back to the ballroom, the gossip had already spread. Everyone was whispering as a few didn’t try to hide their amusement. He got what he deserved, they thought. Before Petyr took more than three steps into the room, Myranda strode across the floor with a look of fury on her face.

“Is it true?” she demanded, taking in his dejected look of shame.

“Yes,” he said. “The king is forcing me…”

He didn’t get it out when she slapped him hard across the face and the room when silent.

“You are going to marry that little slut?” she seethed.

Petyr kept his voice low. “Do you think this is what I wanted? I’ve been _ordered_ by the king. I have no choice.”

“And what becomes of me? Hmm? I suppose I’ll end up nursemaid to that stupid little boy or worse,” she wheeled around on her heel and marched over to where Sansa stood terrified by the wall. Petyr could barely catch up when Myranda slapped the girl for all to see.

“You treacherous little whore! You knew what you were doing! You’ve ruined my life, do you hear me? Ruined it! You think he cares about you? He doesn’t. You should have died with your traitor family. Now, you’re taking away the man I love!” she yelled for everyone to hear.

Petyr knew Myranda was lying. She didn’t love him, but she knew everyone was watching and used this moment for all it was worth. Every person here would feel sympathy for the insulted girl.

Petyr grabbed Myranda, pulling her away as she yanked from his grasp. “Please, I need to speak with you,” he pleaded, and reluctantly she followed him to an empty corridor.

“I knew this would not end well, you bastard. I can’t believe you were this stupid to bring that chit here at all,” Myranda hit Petyr in the chest.

“I told you, the duke requested her presence…”

“I don’t give a damn about the boy. You should never have brought her to Kings Landing, now everything is ruined,” Myranda spat, and Petyr could see Sansa watching them from a distance. He needed to get her out of here before it got any worse.

“Maybe not for you,” Petyr tried to calm the brunette down. “The king has arranged a marriage for you.”

“Oh dear God, please don’t tell me he’s marrying me off to some lord older than my father,” she groaned and shook with anger.

“No, you’re going north to marry Ramsay Bolton. You’ll be the future Duchess of Winterfell.  A title I could never give you even if you married me. He’s your age, I understand. Your father will most likely foster young Robert now. You both are coming out of this better than I. The king almost stripped me of my title and lands. Sansa is my punishment,” he explained, hoping Myranda would calm down and let him leave with no further drama.

“And Lysa?” she wondered in curiosity.

“Who knows,” he lied. “Probably suicide or just an accident. It doesn’t matter now.”

He glanced at Sansa again, and she was shaking with fear alone and surrounded by the lords and ladies of the court. She knew it was bad whatever it was.

“I’ve been ordered to leave the capital. I must go. Goodbye, _Your Grace_ ,” he teased and gave her a light and tender peck on the cheek so the others could see.

Petyr walked towards Sansa feeling Myranda follow him several steps behind. He heard her crying and refrained from rolling his eyes. Oh, she was a good actress. Myranda was going to make sure to milk every bit of this in her favor.

“My – my lord,” Sansa stuttered fearfully. “What is happening?”

Petyr knew damn well she heard the gossip. Her eyes told him the truth. She looked over his shoulder at a crying Myranda being comforted by a lady in blue.

“The king has ordered us to leave the capital,” Petyr grimaced.

“Us?” she muttered and pulled away when he tried to take her arm to leave.

“Yes, come along,” he whispered yet the damned girl wouldn’t budge.

She couldn’t take her eyes off the brunette, giving a stunning performance of heartbreak. Myranda would be the new belle of society after tonight, and the thought made Petyr groan inwardly.

“It’s my fault,” she breathed.

“No, it’s mine. Come along now. We don’t belong here,” Petyr tugged her arm again.

Joffrey strolled in full of laughter at the scene before him and made his way towards the shunned couple. Petyr winced. Why didn’t Sansa leave with him when he told her? This would only get worse with that damned boy. The king looked at Myranda, crying her eyes out, while two ladies sat her down on a chair and then to Sansa frozen next to Petyr.

“Well, it seems you didn’t let her down easy, Baelish. You’re not doing well with the ladies tonight, are you?” he chuckled viciously.

“I did as you commanded, Your Majesty. We were just leaving,” Petyr bowed profoundly and took Sansa’s hand roughly trying to convey his meaning to follow him.

“Have you?” he smiled at Sansa’s frightened face. “Does she know?”

Sansa looked petrified at Petyr and before he could say a word, Joffrey slowly circled the girl, snickering.

“Tell me, Sansa,” he breathed in her ear. “Did he tell you the wonderful news? I’ve found you the perfect husband. You don’t have to be a whore anymore. I don’t detect any gratitude for the gift I’ve bestowed on you.”

Petyr saw it in her face, she knew. Between the gossip, Myranda’s dramatic show, and now Joffrey’s malicious game.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she whispered in horror.

Her face changed with several emotions. The idea that she would have to marry _him_ made her pale and Petyr worried she might retch in front of everyone. Was she revolted by the idea of being his wife?

“I pardoned you and now have given you a suitable husband, even though you deserve to be wed to the lowliest gutter rat, and this is the thanks I receive?” Joffrey jeered nastily.

Sansa bowed deeply and softly cried, “I’m eternally grateful for the honor you have given me, Your Grace. I don’t deserve your kindness.”

“That’s more like it. Now, go with your new husband. I never want to see your face again,” the king snapped and pushed her into Petyr’s chest.

Petyr practically hauled the girl up the stairs an into the foyer. Every single eye stared at them as they walked to the doors in disgrace. He signaled the footman to take their cloaks to the carriage as they made their way outside.

The chill in the air hit Petyr like a punch to the gut. Sansa was silent as the grave and deathly cold. He took one step down the massive granite stairs when she collapsed completely, practically taking him with her. With the aid of his footman, Petyr lifted the woman into his arms and walked down the steps to the waiting carriage.

Once inside, he covered Sansa with his cloak, holding her tightly. The remorse Petyr felt for this girl was overwhelming as the carriage drove them back to his home. Tomorrow, it would be official. They would be married.

It was sooner than he expected. Petyr thought they would leave tomorrow and handle the details once they reached Harrenhal. Perhaps, Joffrey figured Petyr wouldn’t go through with it after all and made the arrangements. He was positively gleeful at the idea of his little punishment for both of them.

Touching her icy cheek, Petyr debated on using smelling salts but decided to let her sleep. Sansa had been through so much, and it wasn’t over yet. Tomorrow, she would be forced to marry him, and then they would return to Harrenhal.

She didn’t know it, but it was for the best, Petyr convinced himself. She would be safer with him than anywhere in the country. Once he made his last move, none of this would matter anymore. There would be no more kings and queens to ridicule or hurt them. There would be no more aristocracy.

In the end, it would be worth it. In time, Sansa would come to understand it. At Harrenhal, Petyr would find a way to show her what she meant to him. He would do everything in his power to make her love him. All he needed was time.

 

 

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	26. Chapter 26

 

 

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Snow glittered the countryside in the afternoon sun as they headed north on Kings Road. It was getting colder and Petyr insisted she dress warmly as the servants placed extra blankets and warm furs in the carriage for the Marquess and his new wife.

Lady was wide awake and watching everything that passed with keen interest. Sansa half smiled at her wolf that was growing bigger by the minute. Even she knew they were heading home. The excitement was unmistakable. Lady couldn’t wait to run free around Harrenhal. Being cooped up in that townhouse was driving her mad just as Sansa was dying to leave, but this wasn’t what she anticipated at all.

Today she was traveling home with her husband. Sansa still couldn’t believe all that had happened in less than a day. Her aunt Lysa was dead along with handsome Sir Harrold, and now she was married. During her stay at Harrenhal, Sansa dreamed of being the lady of such a grand house.

 _Be careful what you wish for –_  

What did she really want? It certainly wasn’t Petyr marrying Myranda. At first, Sansa thought it was because she hated Myranda, but then it became not wanting to see them blissfully happy every day. The idea of having to raise their children was unbearable. There were nights, especially after having kissed and touched Petyr, Sansa wondered if just maybe he might feel something for her other than lonely lust.

The look on their faces as they quarreled last night and when he told Myranda that he could not marry her, gutted Sansa. The woman’s tearful face is all she could see. Myranda did care for him, perhaps even loved him and now Sansa ruined it all. Petyr’s face was stone and unreadable. He didn’t marry Sansa by choice this morning. He was forced, and that was a knife to the heart.

Sansa didn’t recall the ride home that night or who undressed and tucked her into bed. She woke in the middle of the night and held Lady as she cried and cried. She didn’t want it like this.

_No, not like this._

That morning, Sansa dressed in her blue and lace dress. The first one Petyr saw her in the day he returned after purchasing all those beautiful clothes. Sansa could see it clear as day in the ballroom the way he looked at her. Her heart fluttered when she thought Petyr was going to kiss her. Sansa didn’t want him then. She really didn’t know him at all. At some point and time, it changed, and Sansa really could not pinpoint the exact moment she started to fall for him.

She hardly remembered the ceremony, the spoken words, or even his chaste kiss. It was as if it happened to someone else. Sansa’s heart pounded the entire time as the elderly clergyman spoke of love, devotion, and obeying her husband. Other than a waifish altar boy and man dressed in colors of the king, no one else was present. No doubt Joffrey sent someone to make sure the wedding took place.

Sansa’s voice was so faint when she spoke the words and could barely look Petyr in the face. She avoided his eyes for so many reasons. Sansa was afraid of what she’d find there. Even when he smiled half-heartedly at the end, it never reached his eyes. There was sorrow, no matter how Petyr tried to hide it. He was making the best of what the king had decreed for him.

She glanced briefly at Petyr in the carriage. It didn’t matter if he was feigning sleep or not, it gave her a moment to gaze at him. Sansa couldn’t shake the image of him consoling Myranda even after she slapped him. When Myranda railed on her, Petyr didn’t stop her, he simply stood in sadness.

Sansa couldn’t have expected him to come to her aid. Regardless of what he said, it was her fault. Petyr was blaming himself for bringing her to Kings Landing. Perhaps he regretted ever taking her from Riverrun. Whatever his plans, they were smashed with his laissez-faire attitude, not to mention Lysa’s death.

Poor Robert, Sansa sighed and returned her stare out the window. Lysa was a beastly woman, but she was still his mother, and the boy was shattered. She didn’t ask nor did Petyr tell her the details of Lysa’s death. It probably didn’t matter if it was an accident or not because it didn’t change Sansa’s present situation at all.

Robert was still the duke; he would now be fostered by some lord or lady in the Vale. Robert served as her sweet and sickly knight, defending her, and she was fond of him for his kindnesses toward her. The boy was spoilt and quite a handful more times than she cared, but his protectiveness even to the point of rebelling against his mother was of some sweet comfort.

A few times on the journey, Petyr attempted to start a conversation, but Sansa had no desire to talk. He was trying hard to be pleasant, and the very nature of it was hurtful. He didn’t want to be here. Sansa was supposed to be on her way back to Harrenhal today – _alone_.

Petyr didn’t get to marry the woman he wanted and now was stuck with her. Sansa knew what it meant for him. There would be no invitations for them, no one would reply if he wanted to host a party or anything at Harrenhal. As his wife, Sansa had made him a social pariah. Even with his rakish reputation, he would have still been received. She saw the people conversing with him and Myranda last night. A happy couple with terrible reputations but still acceptable. Now, he wouldn’t be welcomed anywhere with her at his side, not to mention their children would be shunned as well. That thought made her cheeks flame.

 _Children_.

Would Petyr want to have her bear his children? He desired another woman, how would it even work? He lusted after Sansa before Myranda came to Harrenhal and mistook her for the brunette the other night. Now that they were man and wife, would he still consider it a duty to bed her? The very idea of it being a duty, _a chore_ , made Sansa ill. Would Petyr fantasize about someone else? She would never know.

The wedding happened so fast that before she knew it, they were packed and ready to leave for the Riverlands. This was not the wedding Sansa dreamed of. Her father did not give her away. Her family and friends were not present. No wedding dress or feast. No romance or love. It was dry, emotionless, and over within a matter of minutes. Petyr did not even have a ring under such short circumstances. Instead, he took off his pinky ring with a tiny emerald and placed it on her finger.

She could feel that cold metal under her glove and muff. Would Petyr care enough to get her a proper ring? Sansa saw the gorgeous diamond he gave Myranda which she flaunted all night. She couldn’t imagine Petyr giving her something like that. No one in the Riverlands would care what his wife wore. There would be no lord or ladies visiting them. No dinner parties or balls. No one to impress. That stunning ballroom would collect dust and nothing more.

Petyr’s eyes were closed as the carriage moved along and had given up long ago when she ignored him. Public humiliation, threats, death, and forced marriage was more than enough for her mind to chew on. Sansa didn’t want to hear whatever tender or false apologies he felt the need to give her. He probably assumed she didn’t want this any more than he did. Hearing him say it would be too much. It was better to let the truth lay silent between them. They both knew it, what good would it do to talk about it? She couldn’t tell him now she cared for him. Petyr loved another, and it broke Sansa’s heart, but she did not want his pity.

All too soon, the carriage arrived at the same inn they stayed at on their way to Kings Landing weeks ago. It was lightly snowing and Sansa wondered how deep it could be at Harrenhal. She walked around with Lady as the footmen unloaded one of their trunks, taking it inside.

_Their trunk._

It was all so surreal. Sansa was the Marchioness of Harrenhal now, Lady Baelish, and it didn’t feel like she thought it would. The sun was low on the horizon as her breath billowed in the crisp air. It would be a frigid night as many locals were moving inside. The small village was practically empty, and Sansa almost asked if Petyr would have any trouble getting a second room this time –  before holding her tongue. She was his wife now. Of course, they would share a room, she winced.

“My dear,” Petyr called from behind yet she didn’t move as she waited for Lady.

Sansa heard his footsteps crunch on the frost and felt his heat before he spoke a word.

“Come inside,” he whispered. He whistled for Lady, and she came straight to him. At least Lady didn’t know of these things. She liked Petyr and obeyed him. Sansa thought she should be jealous, but pushed it away.

Walking inside the inn, Sansa was right. There were very few patrons today. Most of the ton had moved south for the winter while many people other than commoners did not travel in this cold. Sansa was used to it after living in Winterfell. Winter down here was nothing compared to northern ones.

She smiled for a second at the idea of Myranda seeing Winterfell for the first time.  She was from the Vale, but it was different. The girl would probably hate it so far north and cut off from the world. She may become a duchess, but she would be a world away from what she expected to get with Petyr.

Sansa felt sorry the woman, for now, she was to wed a man she didn’t know or love. Winterfell wasn’t as grand as Harrenhal and she couldn’t imagine the Boltons had anywhere near the wealth Petyr did. No wonder Myranda was sobbing last night. Even if she didn’t love Petyr, she was getting the short end of the stick, duchess or not.

Petyr took her arm as the same man came bounding over to him in greeting.

“My lord!” the innkeeper boasted. “I did not expect you again so soon. Usually, your kind can’t wait to move south.”

“I am needed home, I’m afraid,” Petyr smiled thinly and looked around the tavern. “I gather your best room should be available to my wife and I tonight?”

The man grinned from ear to ear, “Oh yes, my lord. My very best room, indeed. Martha!” he shouted at a round woman serving ale. “Make sure our bridal suite is ready for the Marquess.”

The woman frowned but headed up the stairs as Petyr’s footmen followed.

“I must apologize last time not being able to give you my best accommodations, my lord. Lovely to see you again Lady Baelish,” he smiled at Sansa.

It was odd to hear it said aloud. _Lady Baelish_. Sansa couldn’t come to terms with it. She smiled politely and allowed Petyr to guide her to a table near the fire.

“We’re famished,” Petyr pulled out a chair for her and followed to sit down himself. The fire was blazing and quite cozy. Sansa was dying for a drink. Anything would do, even the ale and whiskey she detested.

“Of course, my lord. We have a fine venison tonight. Wine for your lovely wife?” he asked.

“Wine for both of us,” Petyr instructed.

The venison was tough, but Sansa ate it without complaint. Lady chewed on a large bone by the fire while Sansa fed her morsels from her plate yet Petyr didn’t say a word. She finally asked about Lysa and the rumors about Sir Harrold for something, anything to talk about. Now that they were married, she didn’t have the slightest clue what to say.

Petyr said they were both dreadful accidents and were being investigated. For some reason, Sansa didn’t believe him. Mystery always surrounded Petyr, and it seemed rather odd that both had died suspiciously within a day of each other.

Sansa drank the cheap wine and tried to find something to say or do. She stayed away from speaking about Myranda and focused on what needed to be done at Harrenhal instead. His answers were as perfunctory as her questions. Sansa felt as if she conversed with a stranger tonight.

It was getting rather late while Sansa was extremely tired, but she did not want to go upstairs yet. In fact, she was doing everything to avoid it. Sansa knew what was going to happen in that room and was dreading it.

Petyr lightly drummed his fingers on the wooden table and finished his wine. He was deep in thought and gave Sansa a half-smile when he noticed her staring. He seemed to be stalling too. Sansa fought to stifle a yawn, but he caught it and sighed. Only three men remained in the tavern, drinking their ale and Sansa knew what Petyr was going to say.

“It’s late, my dear. We must leave early in the morning before the weather turns for the worse. I want to be home well before nightfall,” he said in hushed tones.

Sansa stood his offered hand and called for Lady to come. The wolf picked up her bone, and obediently followed her masters up the stairs. To say Sansa was nervous was an understatement. She fully understood what was expected on one’s wedding night. Petyr opened the door and allowed her to enter the room. It was much bigger than the one they shared weeks ago. Lady trotted inside and found a spot near a small fireplace, stretching out.

She didn’t hear the door close as her eyes stared at the bed. Sansa shared a bed with him twice before, but this wasn’t the same. Now she was his wife. He was allowed, no, it was his right as a husband to touch her as he pleased. She would be expected to perform her congenital duties.

“Is there… anything else you need?” Petyr asked softly breaking the deafening silence.

A fresh pitcher of water, the trunk with no doubt her nightdress inside, were near the wall by the small window. There wasn’t a screen in this room, though. Why would there be? Man and wife would not be shy in a bedroom.

“No,” she breathed and opened the trunk, sifting through the clothing. It gave her shaking hands a task to perform and Sansa didn’t have to turn around to know Petyr was watching her intently. The nightdress in her hands, she closed the lid and laid it on top.

Petyr already removed his coat and was working on the buttons of his waistcoat when it finally hit her. She was going to have to undress in front of him, and it scared her to death. Sansa wasn’t ready for this. It could have been much worse, she tried desperately to calm her mind.

She could have been married to an old, or cruel man, and Petyr was neither. He had a gentleness with her and Sansa couldn’t fathom he would purposefully hurt her tonight, but it didn’t quell her fears. Her mother told her what the expectations of a new bride were as Myranda had filled her in on the more naughty details. Petyr had given her a taste, twice, on what such intimacies might be. Would he be the same tonight?

Her hands trembled when she untied the ribbon from around her neck. Sansa turned around and couldn’t face him. She tried to reach the back of her dress, but her maid laced it to where she couldn’t find the tie to pull. Sansa struggled for a moment until a pair of hands made her freeze.

Petyr’s fingers were deft and sure as he made quick work of her laces without a word. Sansa wondered briefly how many women he undressed as the action seemed to come easy to him. She didn’t want to know. Sansa didn’t want to picture him in bed with any woman, but Myranda’s face popped into her mind again, making her flinch at his touch.

Immediately, those hands stopped as her dress was completely open to him. Sansa waited for what would happen next. Would Petyr continue undressing her or was he waiting for her? She could feel his breath and it made the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up. The air was thick as time seemed to slow down almost painfully.

Would he fantasize about Myranda tonight? Would it hurt when he took her innocence? Her mind raced with terrible thoughts when his hands touched her bare shoulders. Sansa’s body responded before her mind could control it. She felt her back tense, and her shoulders recoil from those soft hands, and Petyr pulled away instantly.

The silence was deafening except for the crackle of the fire. She heard him step back and then a soft rustling of clothing. Dear God, was his undressing? Sansa dared not turn around. She had already seen the man naked, but still felt like a shy little girl.

It was her wedding night, and they were in a dirty and dingy inn. She was in love with a man that didn’t love her. Sansa could hear her mother’s words as she educated her about men, duty, lust, and marriage. A woman was lucky if she was able to marry a man she loved or was attracted to, but that wasn’t always the case.

Her mother said the first time would hurt, but if her husband was considerate enough, it could be pleasurable in time. Her parents loved each other, and Sansa thought that was how it was supposed to be. Joffrey ruined that notion for her completely. He would have been a horrible husband.

It was something her mother warned of as well. Men, for the most part, could find pleasure in any woman. They did not need love or affection to bed a woman. A woman, however, tended to need those things from a man and rarely ever found them. Lysa had married an old man she didn’t want or love. Sansa heard many ladies speak of such things or how they liked their husband upon marriage and then were heartbroken learning he had taken a mistress. Being a woman was hard, her mother said.

At this moment, Sansa didn’t know which was worse. Knowing that her love was unrequited every time he took her to bed –  or marrying a man, she didn’t love. Sansa thought she could turn off her heart and pray Petyr take a lover and then deal with the time she would have children. But to love a man and know that if and when he took her, it wouldn’t be making love as her mother called it. Petyr wouldn’t be thinking of her, and somehow that felt worse to bear.

Petyr cleared his throat and Sansa took a deep breath before turning around staring at the floor. He had not removed his boots, making her finally glance up. He had buttoned his waistcoat and pulled his coat back on.

Sansa must have had a look of complete surprise and confusion on her face. She didn’t have the slightest clue what to say. Was he leaving? Petyr walked to her and gave her a little kiss on the cheek. When he pulled back, his eyes were unreadable.

“I’ll give you leave to change,” he spoke softly. “I will be downstairs for a few minutes.”

Sansa was speechless. She didn’t know if he sensed her nervousness and was trying to ease her fears. She thought she should count herself fortunate that he was thoughtful. Petyr would still have to undress in front of her when he returned – and then he would climb into bed with her. Yes, perhaps that’s all he was doing… offering kindness. Or worse, he did not want her.

“I don’t understand,” she stuttered and couldn’t meet his eyes. “Aren’t you – I mean, aren’t we supposed…”

“Nothing is going to happen tonight, Sansa,” he said solemnly. “You needn’t worry.”

Petyr feigned a smile and walked out, closing the door just as tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. She didn’t wait as she pulled the dress down and unhooked her corset. Heaven help her. This is not how she wanted it to be. The tears fell while a sob racked her chest.

She grabbed the nightdress, wanting to crawl under the bedclothes and hide. It felt like the first night she spent with him. The night she tried to run away. Petyr left her then out of anger, and he left her now out of regret. Sansa cried softly changing into her nightdress and slipped into bed. She had no idea the man could hear her outside the door for he hadn’t left as he said.

An hour or more passed when the door opened and closed. The room was dark with only a pale amber light coming from the low embers in the fire. Sansa pretended to sleep as she listened to him undress next to the bed. The tears dried long ago as she laid there with the blankets up to her nose. He folded his clothes and placed them on the trunk before sliding into bed next to her.

Sansa could feel his heat as he rested on his side away from her, adjusting the pillow to get more comfortable. The scent of whiskey wafted in the chilly air, and Sansa knew he had been drinking. Petyr needed alcohol before crawling into bed with her. He did not touch her or speak a word. He probably assumed she was asleep, but the two of them lay wide awake, wondering about the other.

What man refused to bed his new bride? Would Petyr have dismissed Myranda on their wedding night? Surely not and it cut Sansa to the core. Even with the whiskey on his breath, he did not attempt to touch her at all. The bed was small enough that they could feel one another. He had kept his shirt on, and his feet were cold as they brushed hers.

Sansa looked over her shoulder only to see the back of his head. Petyr told her they wouldn’t consummate the marriage tonight. Wasn’t that a part of legality of marriage? The rite of passage to make it official?

Reality was a bitter tonic for the senses. Sansa knew it now, indeed in her heart. Petyr did not want her. Whether he loved her or not, he was supposed to consummate this marriage and chose not to. Maybe he was just being kind and saving her the physical pain, but Sansa couldn’t stop thinking if he would have rejected his beloved.

Most men wanted to bed a pretty and young wife, didn’t they? Petyr had desired her in the past and the only reason why he was stalling now, was the real truth. She wasn’t the one he wanted to marry, to bed –  to be his.

Her heart ached, but Sansa refused to let those tears come again. She would not cry in front of him or make him feel guilty. It wasn’t his fault, Joffrey forced him to marry. He did not want her and Sansa knew it now.

It wouldn’t be the first loveless marriage between two people. Every fiber of her being told Sansa Petyr would not hurt her. She would be the lady of the house, and that was better than his ward and housekeeper.

Perhaps they could go back to what they were before coming to Kings Landing. Petyr would go on with his business ventures, probably take a mistress and she would stay at Harrenhal and be marchioness. At least Sansa would have a grand home. Plus, there was Mrs. Ames and the servants she had become friends with.

Sansa convinced herself she was getting all worked up over nothing. For nothing had changed. Not really. Petyr did not love her then, and he didn’t love her now. If he had not sent her away, she would have been nothing more to him anyway.

A ward, a housekeeper. Only now, when or if he decided he wanted children, she would be expected to submit to him. That’s all it would be – producing an heir. Women had done it before and would continue to do so… all without love. Perhaps in time, they could find some semblance of happiness. A friendship.

Just as she always told herself before… _it could have been worse_. Sansa would get over this fancy, this infatuation. For that’s all it was in the end.

  


 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this wasn't the sexy times chapter some of you were hoping for but this wasn't a happy wedding conducive to romance. Don't worry it IS coming. I promise. There's just a little hurdle coming first.
> 
> The Labyrinth....


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew... this was a long chapter to write... a tough chapter to write and I haven't even begun to fuck with you guys yet. First big drop of the roller coaster.... and a change of direction with the plot. Fluff and smut on the way but it only gets more complicated from here on out. I'll be dropping lots of clues and some red herrings along the way in chapters to come that will be important at the very end of the story.
> 
> Big cliffhanger on this chapter, because I'm evil.

 

 

[ ](https://postimages.org/)

 

 

 

  

 

 

It was snowing heavily in the afternoon while Sansa played on the piano in the music room. She glanced out at the tall windows that overlooked the lake and the forest nearby. Harrenhal was beautiful in the winter, Sansa thought with a hint of a smile.

Lady pawed at her dress, saying in her own way, she was ready for her afternoon walk. Sansa smiled and patted her white head nodding in agreement. As cold as it was, being outside with her own true friend was a daily comfort. They had been home just under a fortnight, and Sansa felt already confined in this house – her home.

 _Home_.

Such a strange feeling. Winterfell had always been her home. After living in the Eyrie and Riverrun, this was the first time Sansa referred to a place as her home. Harrenhal was enormous yet it wasn’t big enough to avoid Petyr for long. In the beginning, to his credit, he tried to make her feel contented.  He was pleasant and friendly in the manner that she had liked, but it felt slightly forced as if he were trying too hard to be cordial under the circumstances. Petyr did not pressure her to be intimate, and Sansa wasn’t sure what to make of it – good or bad. Maybe he was thinking the same thing she was. Perhaps intimacy would come in time when they were both ready.

They slipped back into that routine before the events in Kings Landing had changed everything. The snows were relentless and made travel difficult, keeping them both in the house. Sansa would catch Petyr playing the piano when he thought she was upstairs and it was always a somber tune. Sometimes he would listen to her play, but it wasn’t like before.

That comfortable silence they used to enjoy had not returned as she hoped. Meals were awkward as Sansa had difficulty finding topics to discuss with him. Petyr seemed to apologize often and sometimes for reasons Sansa couldn’t understand. She generally wondered what it would have been like if Myranda had never come to Harrenhal, if Petyr had never been engaged to her.

Now everything had changed, and Sansa did not know what to do about it. Every time Petyr even tried to touch her, she couldn’t help her body unconsciously stiffen or recoil. It was an odd sensation. She wanted him but didn’t at the same time. Sansa did not want to be a second choice – a poor substitution. After a while, he stopped touching her altogether and as the days passed, she began to see him less and less.

Upon returning, Sansa’s things were moved to the rooms connecting to Petyr’s. She was the lady of the house now. Wandering to her old bedchamber, she would often sit and wait. Sansa wondered what happened to her ghostly little friend she left weeks ago. She had told Sansa to be strong in the foretelling of Myranda’s arrival. After coming home again, the spirit had remained silent, giving Sansa a sense of abandonment by both her and Petyr.

Wrapped in her fur pelisse, Sansa opened the doors leading to the terrace behind the house. Lady did not wait for her mistress and bounded out leaping around in the deep snow. The wolf practically disappeared in the endless white blanket as she ran playfully around the grounds. The animal’s pure delight brought a genuine smile to Sansa’s face. At least someone was happy, she giggled.

Sansa followed Lady and let herself enjoy the moment. It really was beautiful today. The lake was black but the waters had not crusted over yet with ice. Snowflakes drifted down lazily and Sansa had the childish notion of sticking her tongue out to catch them. The snow was getting deep enough where her skirts needed to be lifted up a bit to walk, but Sansa didn’t mind. The gardens were peaceful, and she looked forward to it more and more every day.

Lady leapt through the gardens and veered off to the left. The labyrinth was dusted with snow making it look like a faerie wonderland. Sansa imagined that just beyond the grand arched entrance, it led to some magical place. Whenever she walked the grounds with Lady, the wolf often darted to the overgrown maze.

Since her first day, Petyr and Duncan had always reminded her that it was dangerous and Sansa was often tempted to disobey them. The labyrinth was too large to go in by herself, not knowing what lay inside those towering hedges. If it were jeopardous, no one would know she was in there and with this cold weather, she would freeze to death before they even found her. Sansa yelled at Lady to come back as the wolf barked and growled at the entrance refusing to obey her mistress.

“Lady, come!” she ordered again making her way to the wolf as she barked continuously.

Sansa waded through the deeper snow until the arch loomed above her head. She grabbed the scuff of Lady’s neck, pulling her back.

“What are you barking at?” she giggled but the wolf’s hackles were high as she growled deeply. Sansa looked at the entrance that was partially blocked by wood planks and the overgrown shrubbery.

“Stay, girl,” she commanded and let the wolf go, crossing over to the thick wood planks and peered inside a long corridor of the maze. “Who goes there?” she demanded, but only silence answered.

Sansa tried to move the wood when two planks gave way where she could squeeze inside if she dared. Lady growled again making Sansa pause with fear filling her belly. If someone was inside waiting, what would she do? She looked around, and the only tracks were hers and the wolf. If someone wasn’t inside, then what was Lady growling at?

Perhaps it was an animal that got lost inside. Of course, there must be an exit somewhere on the other side. Yes, that must be it, Sansa thought. Pulling the wood out, she made an opening so that the deer, or whatever it was, could get out. It was probably afraid with Lady, almost a full-grown wolf, snarling at it. Setting the dense wood down, Lady dashed into the entrance before Sansa could stop her.

“Lady! NO! Come back here!” she hollered, following her inside only a few steps.

The wolf disappeared down the corridor that turned left, and Sansa didn’t dare pursue her any further. She could hear the wolf bark viciously, followed by a sudden quiet. A soft breeze whispering through the trees, and the snowfall was the only sound for a few moments, but it wasn’t the quiet that unnerved Sansa.

There was something not right with this place. Sansa yelled again, then Lady finally came running around the corner towards her in a rush to get out. Something in there scared her and Sansa didn’t wait to find out as she chased the wolf back into the gardens. It must have been a wild animal.

As soon as spring came, Sansa promised herself she would venture inside before Petyr tore it down. It just didn’t feel safe in the dead of winter. The only consolation being able to follow her tracks in the snow to get out. However, Sansa decided this was not that day.

Regarding the house, Sansa could see the windows to their bedroom suites, and for a moment she thought she saw someone watching her. It could be the maids, or maybe it was Petyr. He spent most of his time in his study nowadays, and Sansa didn’t know if it was a curse of a blessing.

Before Myranda, Petyr would come and listen to her play, they would read in the library or go for a ride. Little had been said between them this past week, and it was becoming quite lonely. It reminded Sansa of when she first arrived here from Riverrun. Only now, she was his wife. A wife that didn’t know how to speak to her husband, to ask him the questions she desperately wanted answers to… or how to be a wife at all.

Every night, Petyr would walk her to her door, placing a chaste kiss on her cheek before heading to his own bedroom. Their wedding night had come and gone, and yet he still had not attempted to consummate their marriage. Sansa thought he was doing her a kindness at the inn. Perhaps, he did not want to have their first night together in such a dingy place just as she didn’t.

Even though Petyr treated her sweetly since their first night home, he didn’t even flirt with her the way he used to. Only once did he seem to consider kissing her, and Sansa wanted to ask him why he had not shared a bed with her yet or if he wanted to. That first night, she smothered her face in the silk pillow so he wouldn’t hear her cry next door.

Sansa’s new bedroom was luxurious and beautiful, but it didn’t feel like it belonged to her at all. She remembered Myranda sneaking in that day and gushing over how everything in the house was going to be hers. Before Myranda, Harrenhal had begun to feel like Sansa’s home. Petyr praised her eye for detail and how she was running the house. Now she felt more like a stranger masquerading as the new marchioness.

Everyone was shocked at their early return from Kings Landing, but none more than Duncan. The scowl on his face was unmistakable and he didn’t attempt to hide it. Mrs. Ames smiled and congratulated them both. The woman seemed to see beyond Sansa’s painted happy face. Sansa insisted she was all right every time Mrs. Ames tried to talk to her. The maids were excited that Myranda wasn’t going to be the new mistress of the house and praised Sansa on her good fortune. She could take small comfort in knowing that the staff, well most of them, were happy about the new situation.

Glancing up at the window again, Sansa found it was empty. She wished Petyr could find some comfort with her still. If he didn’t want intimacy, she could live with it. He hadn’t mentioned Myranda or discussed Joffrey’s orders except with his strange apologies. Sansa wondered if she should ask him about it or give him time to adjust to what was forced upon them both. Sansa hoped that he didn’t blame her for it. After all, she didn’t want to go to Kings Landing in the first place. She didn’t know which would be worse, Petyr’s indifference or hatred.

Lady jumped up on her and drew her attention back to the present. She wanted to play and wasn’t about to be ignored. Sansa clumped a ball of heavy snow and threw it across the garden as Lady chased after it. The clouds were getting darker across the lake, and Sansa decided to spend just a few more minutes outside as the man watched her behind the draperies from the rooms above.

 

 

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in the kitchen with Mrs. Ames. The scent and warmth were inviting, as well as the company. William had taken tea to Petyr in his study. The master of the house had yet to show his presence all day since this morning. Lady was fast asleep in front of the fire while Sansa crushed and separated dried herbs while Mrs. Ames started preparations for tonight’s supper.

“You used to confide in me,” the old woman hinted, taking Sansa by surprise. Mrs. Ames always was direct.

“I’m sorry. I haven’t been much of a conversationalist lately, have I?” Sansa returned the smile avoiding the woman’s true meaning.

“Do you want to tell me what happened? It might help,” Mrs. Ames gently pressed as she chopped vegetables on the counter.

“The king dissolved the engagement and forced his lordship to marry me out of spite – a punishment. I thought that’s what everyone already knew,” Sansa muttered a bit more harshly than she intended.

“Forgive me, my lady. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that – well, there’s a change in you… in both of you, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Mrs. Ames apologized.

“Lord Petyr is unhappy with this… with me. Is that what everyone is saying?” Sansa whispered.

“No, my dear. The girls are quite relieved that Lady Myranda isn’t the new marchioness, in fact. It’s just the two of you acted quite differently before that woman arrived here. When you came back, and he announced that you were his wife, we were so happy. However, you are not, and I wondered why. Has he been cruel to you?” the woman asked sincerely. Sansa couldn’t fault her for the observation.

It was evident that they rarely spent any time together for a man and woman newly married. Perhaps the maids thought Sansa lost her maidenhead before coming back to Harrenhal as they changed her linens. Yet, man and wife sleeping in separate rooms every night… something must seem odd to them.

Sansa knew she shouldn’t have to care what the servants thought, but she did. Everyone must know by now that Petyr did not want her as a wife, especially Duncan. The only good thing was that Duncan was bound, out of propriety, to address Sansa with the respect her new title gave her.

“No, my husband hasn’t been cruel,” she began and paused on whether to say anything more. “I’m sure it will be widely known soon enough that Lord Petyr was forced to marry me. It was a cruel joke by the king – a spectacle in front of all the court. He would have married Lady Myranda by now if it wasn’t for me.”

Mrs. Ames put down the knife and came to sit next to Sansa at the wooden table by the fire. She touched Sansa tenderly. Her hands were weathered and wrinkled with her sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Sansa wondered how old Mrs. Ames was and what she had experienced in her life.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” the woman patted her hands softly and stared at her only Sansa couldn’t meet her eyes. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

It was a statement more than a question, and Sansa looked away, afraid of betraying herself to the old housekeeper. She shook her head and willed the tears not to come. Sansa was grateful they were alone in the kitchen right now.

“So, you’ve been married for a fortnight, at least,” Mrs. Ames began, “Has he taken you to bed yet?”

Sansa didn’t know how to answer that. She wasn’t angry at Mrs. Ames’ question. Everyone probably knew by now that they were sleeping apart.

“I see,” she said after a long pause. “I can’t imagine why any man would deny himself when he has such a beautiful and sweet wife.”

“Because he loves someone else,” Sansa muttered. “He doesn’t want me.”

“I don’t believe for one moment he loves that beastly girl,” Mrs. Ames tutted in disgust. “I thought for certain he had feelings for you since the day he brought you from Riverrun. I didn’t think I was _that_ bad a judge of character.”

Sansa returned to crushing herbs to avoid looking at the woman.

“What kind of good character does a man like him have? A gambler, libertine…” she said under her breath trying to appear unaffected. “A young man tried to court me while in the capital, and my lord pushed him away. He said he wanted a large dowry and so forth. That could have been a lie. I could have married someone that wanted me. He was only a knight, but the money didn’t matter.”

“Now I’m wife to a man that never wanted to marry me in the first place. The only good part is that I can live here with you and the others. Lord Petyr was probably just bored, and that’s why he dallied with me in the beginning. When Lady Myranda came, that all changed. I saw them together. I’ll never forget it. She was grief-stricken when it was announced. To make matters worse, the king has decreed she marry and become the future Duchess of Winterfell.”

Mrs. Ames was quiet for a time, and Sansa thought that had ended the conversation before she took her hands, turning her palms up. Sansa saw a mark on the inside of the old woman’s forearm. A strange-looking birthmark or scar but she dared not ask about it.

“Remember what I told you, my dear?” Mrs. Ames smiled, tracing a line down her palm. “It’s all right here. You will have passionate love and two children. Patience, child. I know that…”

“I don’t want his children,” Sansa interrupted and yanked her hands away sharply. “I know he doesn’t want someone like me to be the mother of his children. What kind of life will they have? A traitor for a mother.”

“A better life than most children of this world,” Mrs. Ames replied. “You will be a wonderful mother. I suspect his lordship will be a good father. Despite his past, I believe there’s a good man in him somewhere. Other men would not have rescued you as he did. Nor would they have left you a maiden all this time. Most men would have had their way with a pretty girl like you and then tossed you in the street. Perhaps, if you just give him some encouragement or in time…”

“How did you know he rescued me? I never told you that,” Sansa wondered aloud.

“Oh, the rumors and gossip travel across this county just as in any royal court,” the woman smiled sheepishly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sansa lied with nonchalance. She didn’t want to talk about Petyr anymore. He made his choice, and it wasn’t her. They were practically avoiding each other now.

“I don’t want him, and he doesn’t want me. We’re just another arranged marriage like so many others. I don’t want to have his children. I want nothing to do with him. He can have all the mistresses he wants for all I care.”

Just then William, Petyr’s primary footman, entered with a tray of tea presumably from the study and Sansa resumed her task pretending that nothing had just happened.

“His tea?” Mrs. Ames asked the young man, inspecting the tray. “He didn’t drink much. Did he want a fresh pot?”

“No, he told me to send his supper up to his room tonight,” William told the housekeeper with a befuddled look.

Sansa sighed silently. They might as well not even live under the same roof.

“When was this?” Mrs. Ames asked with amusement.

“Just now. Didn’t his lordship tell you?” William replied, setting the tray down to clean it.

“No. I haven’t seen him all day. Lady Sansa and I have been in here for at least an hour,” the woman said and then the smile died on her face as she looked at Sansa. “Just now, William, or did he tell you this in his study?”

“That’s why I thought he had already spoken to you. M’lord passed me on my way to the kitchen,” William replied, confused.

Sansa glanced at Mrs. Ames and closed her eyes. Dear God, did Petyr overhear their conversation? She felt sick and vaguely heard the housekeeper tell William to leave them alone for a minute. Mrs. Ames made a quick cup of tea that smelled of chamomile flower and mint.

“Drink this, it will settle your stomach, child.”

Her hands shook as Sansa brought the cup to her lips and sipped the hot tea. All her mind could think was that Petyr heard what she said – _everything_ she said.

_Sansa didn’t want him. She didn’t want his children._

What difference did it make what he heard, another voice said? He was compelled to marry her, wasn’t he? He didn’t want her, or he would have acted differently. Petyr had not been cruel to her but indifferent and quiet. He was trying to make things cordial between them, and Sansa just threw it out the door every chance she had unconsciously or not.

Mrs. Ames sat back down and sighed.

“Are you _sure_ you don’t love him?” she asked again. Sansa couldn’t stop the tears this time. Immediately, the old woman embraced her young mistress, rubbing her back soothingly. “Sssh. It’s alright, child. Everything is going to be alright. You’ll see.”

“I’ve ruined everything. I’ve pushed him away when he was being kind. I’ve avoided him as much as possible,” Sansa sobbed into the woman’s chest. “What am I going to do now?”

“Hush, child. Don’t cry,” Mrs. Ames said, giving comfort. “Here’s what you’ll do. Bring his supper to him tonight. He won’t expect it. Don’t mention this conversation or that you believe he heard it.”

Sansa pulled away, wiping her tears. “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t face him now…”

“Courage, my lady,” she said sternly as if she were a mother. “There is not a weak bone in your body. We northerners are brave and strong. We can do anything. Do you love him?” she asked again, and Sansa finally nodded tearfully. “ _Tell him_.”

“He won’t believe me,” Sansa sighed. “Why would he? Plus, he doesn’t want me anyway. So what’s the use? I will not grovel before a man.”

“Then seduce him,” Mrs. Ames smiled. “Men are men, after all.”

Sansa’s eyes bulged.

“I will not. I am – not,” she looked around and then whispered. “I am not a whore. I’m not going to beg my husband to bed me. I told you he doesn’t want me. He wants her. He’s always wanted her.”

“Are you sure? Did you ask him? Does he have any idea that you care for him?” Mrs. Ames inquired knowingly. “Men are less complicated than you think. They need reassurance when it’s something or someone they care about. Whether you believe it or not, his lordship cares for you. He wouldn’t have gone through this much trouble if he didn’t.”

“I don’t need to ask. I saw _them_ , together, before we left for Kings Landing,” Sansa averted her gaze. “I came downstairs to go to the kitchen and heard them in the music room late that night. They were… he doesn’t know I saw them like that. And I know they were intimate at his townhome. I _know_ he wanted her. He even mistook me for her one night. He called out for her… and I ran up to my room.”

Mrs. Ames sighed, and Sansa caught the sadness in her eyes.

“My dear, even if that’s true, it doesn’t mean he can’t care for you as well. It doesn’t happen all the time, but some people in arranged marriages end up growing to love each other or build a friendship. He respects you, I suspect. I thought I saw a friendliness brewing between you. If I may say so, he behaves quite differently around you, then he did with her. He seemed more… at ease. Perhaps, if you both stop ignoring one another…” the woman pressed again.

“What’s the use. If Lord Petyr heard what I said, then he doesn’t have to wonder what I think. He knows now,” Sansa groaned into her teacup.

“No, he doesn’t. Because you didn’t tell me the truth until just now. I think it would be best to speak to him about it and clear the air one way or another. At the very least, you could have a friendship. That’s more than what most women have in marriages,” the housekeeper smiled.

Sansa wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. Mrs. Ames was right. Somehow, she needed to clear the way between them. What’s the worst that could happen – Petyr would tell her what she already knew?

“Hold on, my dear girl. Don’t let go yet,” the old woman insisted. “You are stronger than you know.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Later that night, after she had taken her own supper with the servants as she tended to do, William carried the tray up the stairs as Sansa followed with butterflies in her stomach. Standing before his bedroom door, she hesitated and was about to tell William to take it in himself, but Mrs. Ames words of encouragment willed her hand to knock on his door.

“Come in,” his voice sounded. Sansa took the tray as William opened the door for her.

Her stomach was in her throat as she walked in and spied him by the window with his back to her. She set the tray on the small table when William shut the door, and Petyr turned around at the sound.

Sansa did not know what she hoped for. A smile, perhaps? It was a slight frown that greeted her instead, making her nerves get the best of her. All Sansa wanted to do was run to her room. It would be so easy since they had adjoining doors.

“I – I brought your supper,” she stuttered stupidly.

Petyr stood in his shirt-sleeves and stared at her silently from across the room. Words evaded her, and all Sansa could do was stare back at him. Suddenly, he turned around to the window again as if she wasn’t even there.

“I believe I asked William to bring that to me, but thank you all the same,” he said, and those dismissive words cut like a knife.

Petyr gave Sansa a way out. She should have taken it, but her feet wouldn’t move. He was upset. He must have heard her conversation earlier. If he didn’t care, then why would it bother him? Maybe Mrs. Ames was right.

“I wanted to speak with you,” she mumbled.

“About?” he asked evenly.

Sansa’s mind was suddenly blank. God, why did she come in here? It was the dumbest idea in the world. She should have never let Mrs. Ames talk her into this.

“I – erm, wanted to know why – I mean, I was wondering…” she muttered incoherently and was dying to run for the door.

“Sansa, I’m tired and hungry. Will you get to the point?” he added testily, making Sansa shrink at his tone. He hadn’t spoken to her like that in months, not since they first met and she ran away from the inn.

Her courage disappeared when she backed up towards her connecting door. “Nevermind. It’s not important.”

“Obviously, it was important enough to come in here under the guise of  bringing my supper,” she could almost see the smirk on his face. He turned and raised an eyebrow to her slow retreat to her door.

“I can see you’re not in good spirits. We can talk tomorrow. I have a dreadful headache and should go to bed…” Sansa stumbled.

Petyr laughed darkly at what they both knew was a lie and strode across the room, quickly blocking her path.

“What a terrible liar you are,” he chuckled. “You have something to say, or you wouldn’t be in my room right now.”

He was so close she could smell the brandy on his breath. Before she realized it, Sansa was backtracking to the other door as he followed her step for step.

“Is it improper for a wife to enter her husband’s bedroom?” she countered nervously.

“No,” he smiled mischievously. “Usually, the reason is for something other than bringing him supper. Do I look ill to you, that you must check on me? Or is there something else you desire?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sansa lied. She knew exactly what he meant. He was toying with her right now.

Petyr tutted and kept moving towards her.

“My dear wife, I do believe you’re old enough to know what goes on between a man and woman in the bedroom,” he teased.

Sansa’s eyes widened. Oh God, this wasn’t going well at all like she planned. This wasn’t the gentle teasing she was used to from Petyr. There was a sinister tone to his voice that made her wonder if he planned to do what he was alluding to right now.

“That’s not why I’m here,” she gasped and shoved him away. All it did was make Petyr take her shoulders and push her against the wall, blocking any escape.

“Isn’t it?” he asked with a terrible smile. “I must have misunderstood your intentions, sweetling. Please accept my humble apology believing you desired your husband’s… _attentions_.”

Now he was cruel on purpose because he heard what she said to Mrs. Ames downstairs.

“Let go of me,” she whispered.

“Why? Am I not allowed to kiss and touch my wife?” he hummed along her neck, and Sansa hated that she felt that stirring between her legs. She was frightened not that Petyr would hurt her, but that he could have such an effect on her desires. “I have been a terrible husband, haven’t I? Is that what you’re wondering? Why I haven’t fucked you yet? Are you so eager to know the secret pleasures? Or do you want a child so badly?”

All the tenderness Petyr had ever shown her in the past was gone. The man holding her now reverted to the one she first met at Riverrun and loathed. She hated he could make her feel such desire and the need to kill him at the same time. Damn him!

Sansa heard the slap before the sting of her palm brought her to her senses. Petyr’s cheek tinged a bright pink, and the look on his face was furious. Sansa went from surprise to shock and then to anger. How dare he!

“You think I want you?” she sneered. She wanted to hurt him like he hurt her. “Do you think I would have _chosen_ to marry a man like you? Why, when I could have had an honorable, younger and more handsome man…”

“Oh, like the _honorable_ Sir Harrold, is that it?” he laughed bitterly. Was Petyr jealous? “I highly doubt he would have had the ability or stamina to please you. Or have you forgotten our little tryst downstairs? _I haven’t_.”

Sansa lifted her hand to slap him again, but he caught it and grabbed her other hand as his mouth crashed against hers. Petyr pinned her against the wall with his body, and the more she struggled, the more he pressed against her.

Petyr suckled on her neck, holding her to him so she couldn’t get out of his embrace. “This, I remember… except you were wearing far less. Your wet body against mine. The way your silken cunt writhed on my fingers. You wanted me then, didn’t you? I wanted to fuck you right there in that pool.”

The anger rose up from her belly in a fury. She couldn’t have stopped what was about to happen if she tried.

“All you want is a whore. Go back to Myranda and your mistresses in Kings Landing,” she spat. “I hate you. I never wanted to marry you. I’d rather be dead than let you have your way with me again!”

The words flew out of her mouth, and there was no taking them back. Immediately, the lust and ferocity left Petyr’s face, replaced with something that filled her with such regret. She hurt him badly. Sansa could see it in his wounded eyes. Petyr didn’t rape her that night. She wanted him as much as he desired her.

She was ashamed that she wanted it – _craved it._ Ashamed to let a man give her such pleasure and that she wanted him to make love to her and now. Sansa made Petyr believe he forced himself on her that night. He must have wanted her terribly that night when he told her to bolt her door. Why else would Petyr have let her go except to allow her to keep her honor? Now those words came crashing down when he let her go instantly, backing away.

Sansa’s chest heaved and couldn’t take her eyes off him as he moved further away, creating a distance between them. She didn’t know what to say now. If she told him she didn’t mean it, he wouldn’t believe her. All she wanted to do was find out if he cared about her. Maybe tell him she cared or fell in love with him but that moment was gone, and she couldn’t turn back time. The look of shame and regret filled his eyes. Sansa couldn’t stop the tears that spilled down her cheeks.

Petyr finally tried to compose himself and cleared his throat.

“My apologies, my lady,” he said formally. It was as if a different man stood before her. “My head isn’t clear and I… well, as I’ve said when we first met. I do not… force women. However, I have horribly misjudged your – ahem, I was drunk that night and consumed with lust – and tonight… There is no excuse for my conduct. I promised once before that it would never happen again and I broke that promise.”

Petyr couldn’t look her in the eyes as he spoke and Sansa felt the sob that wanted to come out but she held it down. She didn’t know what she wanted anymore. Petyr only had a lust for her and nothing more. He hadn’t touched her until tonight, and it was out of anger. This wasn’t love. Had Sansa let him bed her tonight, he would have regretted it in the morning just as he regretted it now. If Myranda were his wife, this wouldn’t have happened. Joffrey’s punishment was cruel, indeed.

“I was going to tell you tomorrow, but now would be a better time,” Petyr’s voice strained as he turned his back on her. “I’m leaving in a few days. I know you’ve been melancholy since the ball. There’s nothing you did wrong. This isn't’ what you want, I understand. I do. I know now, this… will bring us both nothing but pain and unhappiness. I don’t want that for you.”

Petyr was leaving. That’s all Sansa’s brain could process. He was abandoning her here like he had planned weeks ago, before Myranda and everything that happened in Kings Landing. Only now Sansa couldn’t stand the idea of being left behind. Why couldn’t she take back everything she said today? Why couldn’t she speak up now and tell him?

“I’m leaving Harrenhal to you. It will always be your home as long as you wish. I have arranged an allowance. Spend it any way you wish. If you need more money, all you need do is write to me,” Petyr said in a businesslike tone, and it reminded Sansa of the offer he gave to Mrs. Cole in Riverrun. “You needn’t concern yourself with anything else. I’ll take care of the business aspects of the Riverlands. Any repairs, supplies, anything at all… just let me know and you’ll have it.”

“Petyr…”

He raised his hand to silence her and continued on. “If you… take a lover,” he began softly as if it pained him to say it. “I’d rather not know. It won’t change anything. I want you to be happy in some way.”

Sansa couldn’t stop the tears and felt faint. Take a lover? She couldn’t even imagine another man in her life.

“Where will you go?” she choked out at last.

Petyr still refused to turn and look at Sansa, and it was killing her. She needed to see his eyes. Was he telling the truth, or was this just another terrible joke?

“Gulltown… for now,” he replied. “I have a small house there. It will be easier to conduct my business arrangements. After that, I may travel abroad again. I haven’t quite decided yet.”

“Why are you doing this? Why not just annul the marriage? You’d be free,” she muttered.

“Is that what you want?” he whispered with a slight turn of his head.

Sansa didn’t know how to answer him. Petyr was offering her wealth, security, comfort, and a life of her own. Any sane woman would take it. He was giving her Harrenhal. It’s more than she could have asked for.

“It doesn’t matter anyhow. The king has forbidden any kind of annulment or divorce,” he added after a long silence. “I have already drawn up the necessary papers giving you…”

Sansa couldn’t listen to another word. She ran to her room and locked their connecting door before bolting the others. By the time Sansa crawled under the covers of her bed, she could hear a faint knocking and Petyr softly calling her name. She didn’t want to listen to any more of his plan. All she knew was that this was over. Petyr, out of a sense of duty, was going to take care of her, but he couldn’t stand the idea of living here or with her any longer. Sansa gave him no reason to stay yet she felt she would have abased herself to no avail. They were never right from the beginning.

She could hear Lady pawing at her door, but Sansa couldn’t move from her bed. After a long while of the wolf’s whining, she heard Petyr call her to his room and shut the door. He would leave her Lady of course, but that wolf would be heartbroken. It was evident she loved Petyr, too, and it hurt Sansa all the more.

Hours passed and his room became quiet as Petyr had long given up on her door. Lady must have been content with him for her scratching and whining stopped as well. The silence was too much. Sansa did not dare to wander downstairs and drink herself into slumber. She wanted all the pain and heartache to go away forever. Sansa never wanted to feel again for anything or anyone. It would be better if she weren’t here at all.

A gentle humming buzzed in her ear and Sansa thought she was dreaming again. The tune was eerily similar to something she had heard before. Sansa was scared to look over the duvet of her bed. When those little fingers sifted through her hair, she almost smiled.

“ _Don’t be sad, I am with you_ ,” the ghostly girl whispered softly.

Why did she tend to show up when Sansa was having a crisis?

“ _You left your room_ ,” it said in a sing-song fashion. “ _This one is pretty too. I was sad when you went away. Are you going to stay for good now_?”

Sansa sniffed lightly, “It seems that way.”

“ _He is lost on another_ ,” the sweet voice said once again.

“I know,” Sansa answered quietly as the little spirit combed her fingers through her hair.

“ _You can come with me_ ,” it told her. “ _You’ll never be sad again_.”

“Go with you? Where?” Sansa was confused. She was a ghost, wasn’t she?

“ _Tir Na n'Og_ ,” it replied serenely.

 _The land of the faeries._ Sansa knew the childhood stories well. It wasn’t real. Just storied passed on through the ages. Was it possible to enter that world as a mortal? Could Sansa leave this world behind in search of what the little spirit was offering?

Her grandmother often spoke of that other place. It was supposed to be beautiful where time stood still. However, there was always a dark side to anything beautiful. The stories of pookas, banshees, and changelings were frightening enough. Faeries were mischief-makers and kidnapped human babies to claim as their own. Sometimes mortals were taken or seduced into the other world and never heard from again. Occasionally they came back, the changelings, and they were never the same.

Suddenly, Mrs. Ames warning rang in her mind.

 _Don’t listen or talk to them. They are tricksters and liars. Do not take their help – ever_.

Is this what she meant? The Daoine Sídhe were real? Sansa had thought the old woman was superstitious, yet this couldn’t be. Here she was talking to what she thought was a ghost. Sansa knew she was either mad, or these things truly existed. The girl did protect her and Lady in the woods. She warned her about Petyr and Myranda.

“You want to take me to the Other World?” Sansa asked incredulously and could feel it touching her hair. The action was meant to be soothing, and it was strangely, but Sansa couldn’t wrap her mind around what was happening right now. She heard Petyr’s logic and reason rooted in reality, telling her she imagined all of this. It wasn’t real. This isn’t how the world worked. At the same time, this world was slowly killing Sansa. How long would she last living like this?

The spirit sounded and acted like that of a little girl. Sansa remembered a little girl on fire, but some faeries were known to be shape-shifters and even take human form. Did she dare look at her? What if it was something else?

“ _You will be happy there. You are special_ ,” it said.

Sansa’s fears bubbled to the surface. No, she couldn’t look. She must be dreaming. There was no land of the _Tir Na n'Og._ It was all children stories coming back to free her troubled mind. Faeries, goblins, banshees, and ghosts did not exist. There was something about this house, the land that seemed to feed on her dreams, memories, and childish fantasies.

Mrs. Ames had asked her if she experienced anything like this back in Winterfell. Sansa told the truth – she hadn’t. Maybe it was because she was sad and afraid since her family’s death. She had heard so many stories about Harrenhal that Sansa ended up making them real in her mind. This house was new by comparison for Harrenhal had an ancient history. It wasn’t until coming here that these strange things began to happen.

Only once, at Petyr’s townhouse, did she have a strange nightmare about her, Petyr and Harrenhal. Either Sansa really was going mad or all she had left was to retreat into her fantasies. She no longer had any family – only an old, northern woman and a house full of servants. How long would it take before those servants would tell stories in the county about their mad and lonely mistress? Her husband abandoned her and left her to dwell alone in an old, haunted mansion. Would anyone care if Sansa vanished or died?

“I am not special,” Sansa breathed. “Go away.”

“ _Come with me_ ,” the voice sang.

Sansa covered her ears, willing the voice to disappear.

“Go away,” she chanted softly. “Please, go away.”

“ _He will not come for you_ ,” it sang again, slowly drifting into the distance. “ _But I will. I will always be there to help you. Only I can take away the pain. The burning pain_.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sleep did not come easy last night, if at all. His breakfast tray and coffee untouched, Petyr sat and stared out the frost-encrusted window of his bedroom. Winter had come, and his heart froze with it. Somewhere in the lake’s black waters, it resided, numb and cold.

Her words echoed in his mind, and Petyr felt he had made an impulsive mistake with Sansa. He remembered overhearing her talk to Myranda that day in his townhome. Even then, she said she didn’t want him, had no feelings for him. Petyr, out of a sense of seduction and need to bring her to him, practically forced himself on her. Each time, Sansa pulled away with a look of hurt and shame. No matter, he convinced himself. Petyr could make Sansa love him, eventually.

How wrong he had been. Sansa never wanted him but felt cornered because of what he had done. Petyr made her this way, and that thought was eating him alive. Lady snuggled at his feet when he let out a sigh. Petyr had been so selfish these past few months, thinking he was doing the right thing for her, but it was a lie. He only wanted it to be true.

This marriage, unbreakable by the king’s decree, left nothing else to be done but to go. Petyr would give her anything she desired. Sansa would want for nothing, but his heart would die faster every day that he spent in her presence, knowing she hated him for what he had done. Furthermore, Sansa did not even know the full truth of it.

_I’d rather be dead than have you rape, touch, kiss me…_

It pierced his heart to hear it. Petyr thought she responded to him, maybe even wanted him, but it was all an act to protect herself. Sansa submitted to him, hoping it would end quickly or lessen the hurt he had inflicted. He never saw it from her perspective at all. Petyr had tunnel vision only thinking of the future _he_ desired. Not once did he ask Sansa what she wanted. Would he have cared?

Between the conversation he overheard in the kitchen to Sansa’s admission yesterday, Petyr knew it couldn’t work. He lied last night to her. He hadn’t made all the arrangements, he only wanted to regain some control over the situation. It was something to say to, perhaps ease her mind. He certainly couldn’t turn around to face her. Petyr couldn’t bear to see her tears or look of hatred. Today, he would make good on the promise he made her last night. He meant what he said. He would take care of her until her dying day.

Petyr walked to her door and listened for a moment. He didn’t have to touch the latch to know it was still locked. What could he even say to her now? No words could mend this wound. He left his room as Lady followed obediently behind. Passing the maid, Sarah, the girl told him Sansa had not unlocked her door this morning.

“Use Mrs. Ames key and see to my lady wife,” Petyr instructed. “She wasn’t feeling well last night.”

The maid curtsied, “Yes, m’lord.”

Petyr knew Sansa did not want to see him even just to check on her. He let Lady out and gave his instructions to Duncan on the luggage he wished to take with him. By the time he returned to his study to make all the arrangements he had needed for Sansa, the maid had told him her mistress did not want to be disturbed. Petyr didn’t bother to reply and only opened the door enough to let wolf enter her room.

It was mid-afternoon when Duncan knocked on his study door. Had he been staring out the window this entire morning?

“My lord, a carriage, has arrived with Lord Royce and his daughter. They encountered a bit of trouble on the Kings Road. One of the wheels will certainly break before they reach Lord Holloways Town. I instructed men to repair it and escorted them into the library to warm up,” the butler told him, and Petyr refrained from sighing in exasperation.

He didn’t need this right now. Surely, they would head back home before riding to Winterfell. Petyr couldn’t believe his bad luck. He never should have become involved with the damned Royces. If Sansa knew they were in the house… he didn’t want to know what it could turn into.

“Thank you, Duncan,” Petyr replied emotionless, and then a thought occurred to him. “Does Lady Sansa know we have guests?”

“No, my lord,” the man answered. “I came straight to you, of course. Do you wish me to inform her ladyship?”

“No,” Petyr waved him off. “My wife is not feeling well. I don’t want her disturbed today. Let her rest. Inform our guests I’ll be down in a moment.”

“Yes, my lord,” Duncan nodded and closed the door.

Petyr waited a minute or two until he was sure he couldn’t be heard and threw his teacup across the room, shattering it to pieces. Damnit! He knew Myranda would want to see Sansa and meddle into his new marriage. Petyr prayed Sansa stayed in her room today. If he could get their carriage repaired quickly, she might never know they were here.

Entering the library, he heard Myranda’s shrill voice as she complained about the tea the servants brought her.

“Forgive me for keeping you waiting. I wasn’t expecting visitors today,” Petyr put on his best smile nodding to them.

“Baelish,” Royce frowned and sipped his port. “Unlike my daughter, I don’t wish to be here any longer than necessary. Once your men make the repairs, we wish to be on our way. The future Duchess of Winterfell shouldn’t keep such company.”

“It shouldn’t be too much longer,” Petyr advised, holding his tongue on what he really wanted to say and turned to Myranda. “My lady, what can I do to make you more comfortable?”

“Petyr, ignore my father,” Myranda cooed as she crossed the room and pecked his cheek with a smirk. “I’m glad to see you.”

“You should spend the next day in Lord Holloways,” he said, taking a step back. “By the looks of the sky, a storm will come by evening.”

Myranda cozied up to him again and grinned, “Or we could stay here for the night, accepting your hospitality once more, or do you still need privacy with your new wife?”

Petyr smirked in return, “Not that I wouldn’t offer, but I do fear your father is thoroughly against such a notion.”

“I could sway him,” she tutted. “Send your little wife to bed and meet me somewhere private?”

“Tempting, my dear,” he whispered before putting distance between them. “I fear I’m an old married man now. Plus, you have a new husband that awaits you in Winterfell.” Petyr glanced at Royce’s disapproving glare and moved a more respectable distance away. “You must be hungry after such a harrowing journey. Duncan will see to anything you wish and prepare something for your trip home. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see how they’re coming along with the repairs.”

Petyr bowed and was almost out of the room when Myranda called out.

“Will your lovely wife not greet us properly?” she sneered.

“Lady Sansa has been ill this morning. Otherwise, she would have graciously greeted you,” Petyr tossed back casually and didn’t wait for a reply. “She asked me to make her apologies.”

Petyr walked to the foyer in a fit of anger. The sooner they left this house, the better. Somewhere in his gut, Petyr knew this wouldn’t end well today.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Lady was growling at the door and no matter what Sansa said, the wolf wouldn’t budge. Sarah had checked on her twice since this morning, informing Sansa it was the master’s orders. So, Petyr did not want to deal with her and sent the servants instead. Typical, she thought. Did she expect anything different?

“Lady, stop it. Come here,” she ordered the wolf as a knock came to the door.

Sarah came in with Sansa’s tea and set it on the table. The girl looked flustered and anxious.

“Are you alright, Sarah?” Sansa inquired.

“Oh yes, m’lady,” the maid replied nervously and poured the tea. “Is there anything else I can bring you?”

“That will be all,” she answered and watched the girl curiously as she scurried out of the room. What was wrong with her all of a sudden?

That same curiosity had Sansa cracking her door open a little. A few servants were at the end of the hallway near the landing whispering as they looked over the balustrade. Glancing the other direction, Petyr’s study and bedroom doors were closed as Sansa debated on learning what was going on.

Keeping Lady inside, Sansa shut the door and padded silently to the two maids and could hear their voices more clearly.

“The nerve of that woman, coming here,” the blonde, named Alice, tutted.

“It’s a good thing his lordship didn’t tell m’lady,” the short redhead sighed, and Sansa couldn’t remember her name Jane, was it? “I feel awful for her.”

“Awful about what?” Sansa asked quietly, making the maids jump in surprise.

Quickly, they curtsied and looked nervously at one another as their mistress gazed at them with a questioning.

“Excuse us, m’lady,” the Alice stuttered. “We didn’t mean to – I mean…”

“It’s alright. I’m not angry with you,” she smiled warmly. “What’s going on that I don’t know about?”

“Erm – you see, it’s them again, m’lady,” the redhead quivered. “I mean, Lord and Lady Royce. They’re downstairs with the master.”

Sansa’s spine stiffened. Myranda and her father were here? Why? They must be on their way home or heading north to Winterfell. Why in God’s name would they stop here after all that had happened?

“I see,” Sansa frowned in thought. “Why was I not informed of our guests?”

The girls looked at each other in fear.

“His lordship – I mean, Lord Baelish said you were too ill. That you weren’t to be disturbed at all,” the blonde muttered.

So, Petyr didn’t want her to know his love was here, did he? How quaint. The notion made Sansa’s stomach queasy but did not want to appear weak or jealous in front of the servants.

“Well, I’m feeling a bit better,” she smiled. “I will receive our guests. Did my lord husband say how long they were staying? Are rooms being prepared?”

“No, m’lady,” one answered. “Mrs. Ames nor Duncan said a word.”

Sansa glanced over the balcony and heard voices at the other end closer to the library and bristled. She couldn’t be a coward and hide in her room. Petyr mostly likely apologized already for her absence but something in Sansa wanted to speak with Myranda. To tell her, she was sorry things ended up this way. Now that weeks had passed since the ball, perhaps the girl would listen to her rather than a slap across the face. More importantly, Sansa wanted to know how Petyr reacted to Myranda’s presence again. She was torturing herself, she knew, but Sansa had to know.

“Prepare two rooms, just in case Lord Baelish changes his mind,” Sansa instructed and walked down the grand staircase.

Servants were bustling and through the foyer, she could see the carriage with several men attending to it just outside the windows. The voices grew stronger, the closer she reached the library and knew where they were. Taking a deep breath, Sansa entered the room only to find Myranda and her father by the fire as footmen prepared a sideboard with hot food and drink.

“Lord Royce. Lady Myranda. I hope to find you both well,” she announced herself.

Lord Royce did not reply at all and marched out of the room, making sure she felt the weight of his cut. He would have nothing to do with her, regardless of her new title. Decorum allotted her nothing in her own home with people who blamed her for the change in carefully laid plans.

“Well… _Lady Baelish_ ,” Myranda smirked. “Marchioness of Harrenhal.”

The two women stared at each other from across the room when Sansa finally glanced around wondering where Petyr was. Realizing they were alone, she slowly walked towards Myranda, trying to find the right words.

“Myranda,” she began timidly, “I know what you must be thinking, but…”

“Do you?” the girl chuckled and downed her hot, mulled wine. “Petyr said you were ill. You look it. Does marriage not agree with you? Or are you with child already?”

Sansa didn’t know what to say. Any answer she gave would play into Myranda’s hands. Petyr already met with them. Did they know he was as unhappy as she was? Sansa cursed herself for coming downstairs. It was a foolish idea. Myranda clearly was not interested in seeing her or learning the truth.

“Hmph,” she sniggered. “How does it feel to trap a man into a marriage he doesn’t want? I underestimated you. You probably begged him to take you to Kings Landing.”

“But I didn’t. I didn’t want to go,” Sansa pleaded. She didn’t know why she bothered. Why did it matter now? Myranda meant nothing to her. Just like everyone else, she probably thought Sansa was a whore that stole herself a rich husband.

“Of course,” the brunette japed and without another word left the room.

Sansa stood there, stunned. She wanted to run back up to her room, but Petyr would soon know whereabouts and wanted to avoid him as well. He lied when he said his wife was ill. He didn’t want her to know they were even here.

Petyr would most likely be angry, and Myranda did not want to hear any excuses or apologies. Lord Royce was insulted to be in the same room with her. God, she couldn’t bear to see what Petyr would do or say in front of them. Would they know he was leaving?

Grabbing her cloak and gloves she left to dry from yesterday, Sansa walked outside and further down the terrace out of sight. The gardens were the perfect distraction as she sat on a snow-covered bench. It was starting to snow again and Sansa hoped that they would continue to ignore her presence altogether. Maybe she could spend the rest of the afternoon in the stables. Surely, they would not want his _mistress_ to dine with them if they stayed. And what if the Royce’s stayed the night? Would Petyr and Myranda….

“You’re such a little coward, Sansa,” a vicious voice sneered.

Myranda walked over to her and stood next to the bench, looking out at the lake. She didn’t even bother putting on a cloak. Sansa expected the woman to be angry and surrendered.  She might as well let Myranda have her say in the privacy of the garden.

“You don’t even know what to do with a man like him, do you?” she chuckled darkly. “In fact, I’m betting he hasn’t even touched you… has he?”

Sansa didn’t look at her or rebuttal. It was true, but she couldn’t admit it to this woman.

“Do you know how I know?” she smirked. “Because I’ve had him. He’s quite the lover, I must say. And if he had bedded you, I don’t think you would be sitting out here in the cold. You don’t exactly paint the picture of a happy couple. What’s wrong? Can’t you satisfy him?”

A little fight rose from her belly. Angry or not, now Myranda was just a nasty snit. There was nothing Sansa could have done to stop what happened.

“If you must know, we’ve been intimate. We are man and wife now,” Sansa replied but the moment the words left her lips, she winced.

Myranda laughed heartily, and Sansa knew she said the wrong thing.

“ _Intimate_?” she chortled. “That’s a lie that would only come from a virgin. Tell me, did it hurt when he put his cock inside you? Did he make you moan and tremble? Did he groan your name? You naïve thing, you never fucked a man before.”

Sansa turned her face away, “Ladies don’t speak of such things.”

Myranda sat down next to her and couldn’t stop snickering.

“You have no idea. Let me tell you,” the girl mocked. “Petyr likes it when I put my mouth on him, making him hard. He fucked me like a champion and I screamed in pleasured in his bedroom. How pathetic that he doesn’t even want his own wife. What did he do on your wedding night? Give you a handshake and send you to your room? I think that’s the worst I’ve ever heard. It would be one thing if you were ugly, but you’re prettier than me, and still, you can’t even get your own husband… one of the most well-known scoundrels, to bed you.”

Sansa couldn’t stop the tear falling down her cheek and quickly wiped it away. This is why she hated Myranda before. She was horribly cruel and knew just how to say the words that would hurt the most. Myranda hadn’t changed since Sansa’s time at the Eyrie. No, the girl put on quite the show of false friendship. Was her love for Petyr a façade as well?

“Tears?” the brunette sighed in annoyance. “Why should _you_ cry? You have the wealthiest husband other than the king himself. You got more than you deserve.”

The woman studied her for a moment, and Sansa wished she would go away. She did not want to be frail in front of her now. Suddenly, a wicked smile formed on the girl’s lips.

“Oh, this is rich,” she chuckled. “You’re really in love with him, aren’t you? I thought this couldn’t get any better.”

“Please leave me alone,” Sansa muttered.

“No, no, no. Here I thought you still being a virgin was pathetic, but you love a man that doesn’t even want you. That’s almost as bad as it gets. Well, I take that back. It does get worse. Not only does he not want you,” Myranda smiled wistfully. “He’s in love with me. He will hate you for forcing him to marry you if he doesn’t already.”

“I didn’t want this,” Sansa began to cry. “The king…”

“The king,” Myranda began, “Oh yes, the king. He wouldn’t have ordered it if you were there. It’s all your fault. Petyr was only trying to be nice to you. He is unhappy, can’t you see it? He’s had many mistresses, I know, but he doesn’t even want to bed you. That should tell you how much he loves me. Now, I’m forced to marry a man I don’t love, and he is stuck with a girl he loathes… all because of you.”

Sansa wiped her eyes and turned away. Everything Myranda said was true. None of this would have happened if Petyr left her in Riverrun. She wouldn’t have fallen for him. Now they were both miserable, and he was leaving her in a few days.

“Lucky for you, our carriage is almost fixed. Once everything is arranged, we’ll go to Gulltown…” Myranda rambled on, and Sansa remembered what Petyr said last night. He was going to Gulltown. Would he meet with her there? Was Myranda really going to Winterfell?

“… and I suppose it could be worse. I’ll at least become a duchess. Someone respected and admired, which is far and away what anyone will ever think of you. You’ve ruined him, don’t you see? He’ll never be received by any respectable house now that you’ve latched your claws into him,” Myranda frowned.

The women sat in silence and Sansa wished Myranda would go back inside and leave her be. She was growing terribly cold out here and didn’t even have the heart to argue with the girl.

“Look at you,” the brunette cooed softly. “You really don’t have anything to live for, do you? He’ll probably leave you sooner or later. Will you drown your heartache with his gold perhaps?”

“I don’t want his money,” Sansa sniffed. “If you love him, take him. Run away…”

“And where would we go?” Myranda asked sarcastically digging Sansa’s wounds. “The king has made it impossible for him to divorce you and I’m promised to that Bolton boy…” she paused. “Unless…”

“What?” Sansa’s asked curiously.

“If you were gone, he would be free,” Myranda said, and Sansa understood her meaning completely.

Petyr couldn’t just send her away. She couldn’t run away. The only way to set him free would be…

“If you love him, wouldn’t you want him to be happy?” Myranda asked sweetly. “What do you really have to live for? You could free him right now. You could make amends for this wrong…”

Sansa thought about it. She told Petyr never to touch her again, that she hated him. He was leaving and still would be forever shackled to her. He didn’t want Sansa, just as Myranda said. The only reason he kissed her last night was out of anger. She would be miserable and alone after he was gone.

“I wonder how cold the lake is now?” Myranda pondered aloud. “If you put stones in your pockets, I bet you would freeze faster before gulping any water. I’ve heard drowning is like falling asleep. So quick and painless and it’s over.”

Sansa looked out over the black lake. It would be freezing. Dear God, was she really considering this?

“Do it for him, Sansa,” Myranda sniffed and dabbed her eyes. “Petyr is too gentle, and he would feel guilty if he found you gone in the house and such. This way, you would never be found. The stones would pull you down. He would never know… he would mourn you, of course, but then he would free. Isn’t love making sacrifices?”

Sansa couldn’t hold it in any longer and a sob finally escaped.

“Go away, please,” she pleaded. “Please, leave me alone.”

She didn’t wait for Myranda to move and ran down the steps into the gardens. It was too much. She couldn’t take it anymore. Why did Petyr have to love someone like her? Why did Sansa love him? If she ran away, she knew he would probably find her. Even he didn’t, it still did not free him from this prison. God, Sansa wished she never came to this place.

Trudging through the deep snow, she fell against the hedges of the labyrinth unable to catch her breath. Hearing voices far behind, Sansa saw Petyr come out the door just as Myranda was going back inside the house. Ducking behind a shrub, Sansa observed them, not wanting Petyr to see her. They spoke for some time, and when Myranda’s arms came up around his neck, Sansa couldn’t watch any longer. It was too painful. Petyr loved her, that’s all she knew.

The entrance to the labyrinth was just behind her as Sansa quickly squeezed past the wood planks and hid just inside the archway. She waited and waited and then finally peeked out, finding they had gone back inside the house. Myranda either didn’t tell Peyr she was out here or he didn’t care.

The lake was still a far way off, and Sansa didn’t know if she had to nerve to actually do it. Turning around, she glanced down the long corridor of the maze. She always wanted to discover its secret passageways and maybe now was a perfect time.

It was growing late as the snow started to come down harder. If Sansa wandered far enough, she could just sit and wait for the cold to take her. The fear of drowning was too much, but if she lost her way inside the labyrinth for just long enough – as she thought yesterday, they would never know she was in here. Why would anyone come to look for her here? The snow would cover her tracks soon. She would be invisible.

The decision was made the moment her feet started walking. Sansa turned the first left corner as Lady had and waited to see if anything was there. The hedges were overgrown and it was a bit difficult to walk as she tripped over roots and branches, but Sansa didn’t stop.

It was an eerie place. Even if it had been trimmed and maintained, Sansa couldn’t imagine anyone would want to be in here at all. Just as she felt yesterday, there was something wrong here. There were no sounds at all. She feared there might be a wild animal lost in the maze, but when she turned another corner, Sansa stood still with utter shock.

There were crates everywhere, blocking the path. They were stacked and covered with thick, oiled canvas to keep the weather off them. Further down, it looked like the type of canons her father’s army used during the rebellion. Sansa was no expert in warfare, but she saw enough in those last days before they surrendered to the king. These crates were filled with firearms, ammunition, and everything to start a war. What in God’s name was Petyr up to?

_What are you hiding? What keeps me from telling everyone what you’re doing?_

_Trust… and treason._

He told everyone the labyrinth was dangerous and never to enter it. William said Petyr was going to tear down the maze in spring. Would he have been able to move such a vast stockpile by then? Who was he working with?

The corridor was packed, and Sansa could see another passageway to her right that appeared to be filled as well. Quite the hiding place. Petyr made the household believe it was haunted and kept them from finding his secrets.

Sansa remembered the two locked, heavy oak doors beneath the house. What was he hiding there? What did she get herself into with him? Petyr was nothing but lies and deception. Did Myranda and her father know? Where they in on it too?

The moment Sansa went back to the house, he would know. Petyr was able to read her like a book. If he found her in here, discovering his secret, would he kill her? Would he have trusted her with such knowledge? Was he planning on going to war with Joffrey himself or… Sansa couldn’t think. Perhaps Myranda already knew.

_You don’t even know what to do with a man like him, do you?_

Sansa didn’t know Petyr at all, or what he was capable of. Strange men often came to the house regularly to meet with him and in the capital. Petyr was either involved, due to his wealth and connections in this treachery or the head of it. He told Sansa that she would be in just as much danger as him if she betrayed him.

A sound of a branch breaking made Sansa squeak in fear as she whipped around. The labyrinth had been eerily silent before but now the cold breeze started to sound like a million little whispers.

“Is someone there?” her voice shook.

The whispers grew a little louder, and Sansa felt her blood turn cold. Without another thought, she ran back the way she came following her tracks in the snow. Hearing her name on the wind, Sansa turned around, stepping back and felt the snow and branches give way.

Sansa screamed as she fell down and desperately tried to grab anything. When her hands latched onto strong roots, she could barely see the snow-covered edge of the pit. Sansa dug her foot into the side, trying to pull herself up, but her feet slipped on the wet earth. Her dress weighed her down, and her cloak was caught on something, making it tight around her neck. She looped her arm around one of the roots and held on. .

Her hand bled from where the roots cut her hand. The more she tried to pull herself up, the more she slipped and almost strangled herself. Sansa dug her foot in again and braced her other foot on the wall trying in vain to keep from falling. She glanced down, and it was black. How deep did this pit go, and why was it here?

The whispers stopped, and there was nothing but the howl of the wind muting Sansa’s cries for help. The air was biting cold, and with her throat constricted by her cloak, she couldn’t scream any louder. Sansa didn’t know how long she yelled. When silence answered her cries, she felt numb. Above, the sky grew darker while the snow piled up. If no one found her here, Sansa would be dead. From falling or freezing to death, she didn’t know which would be more terrifying.

Sansa cried out again but her throat was hoarse and tight. It was so bitterly cold down here. The more she moved, snow fell off the edge onto her. She held still and waited. Someone would come, wouldn’t they? She had been gone long enough that someone would question her absence.

Sansa’s hand were numb with cold and pain. How long could she hold on? It couldn’t be much longer and whimpered at what lay below. She could die from the fall or worse break her leg or back and die slowly.

“ _Don’t be frightened_ ,” a familiar voice said. “ _I am with you_.”

“Oh God, help me. Help me please,” Sansa begged.

“ _Let go_ ,” it said.

“No, I’m scared. Please help me, I’ll do anything,” Sansa pleaded again, but the voice did not answer.

Sansa heard the soft crunching of footsteps in the snow and sighed in relief. They heard her. They came to rescue her at last.

“Here! I’m here!” she called out breathlessly.

“Girl, did I not warn you it was perilous?” a dark voice sneered as the face of the last person Sansa expected to see loomed over the opening of the pit. “You should have heeded my warning.”

“Please, Duncan. Help me,” she cried, reaching up her hand.

“Do you know what this is? It’s an oubliette. The labyrinth is full of them, and God knows what else,” he grinned maliciously. “The Mad King built this damned thing if you remember me telling you.”

He knelt down on one knee and watched her curiously. Duncan did not extend a hand to help her. He did nothing. The old butler just knelt there and smiled.

“Before His Grace rebuilt it, Harrenhal had two grand towers. One overlooked this labyrinth completely. The king would force prisoners or whomever he wished into like a demented game of survival. Some pits were so deep, they never found the bodies. Others were filled with spikes, or maybe a wild animal starved with hunger. People were told to find the end, and they would be free. If I remember correctly, only two ever made it out, and the King burned them alive while he laughed.”

“Please, Duncan,” Sansa whimpered, her hand cramping with pain.

“What do you think is at the bottom of your little oubliette? I can’t see in this dim light,” the man chuckled. “By the looks of it, you’ll find out soon enough.”

“You can’t leave me here. _Please_! Lord Baelish will…” she whimpered.

“His lordship has no idea where you are. That’s exactly what I’m going to tell him,” Duncan grinned. “ _My lord, I searched the gardens, the stable and nearby grounds. Is it possible the young lady has run away?_ ”

“He’s looking for me?” she asked, feeling her hands slip a little.

“I wouldn’t say _searching_. Just curious, I suppose. His lordship was rather engrossed in bidding the lovely Lady Myranda and her father goodbye,” Duncan spoke as if having a pleasant conversation with tea. “It’s a shame such a grand lady isn’t our marchioness. I hear she’s to become Duchess of Winterfell. Someone to be revered and remembered. Do you think anyone will ever find you? I wonder. Once the marquess burns down this deathtrap, your body will be buried with it.”

“Duncan, no matter how you hate me, please,” Sansa begged again, but those pleas fell on deaf ears.

The man looked around and stood up, brushing the snow off his trousers.

“It’s terribly cold, isn’t it? I’m an old man. I don’t wish to catch my death out here,” the butler grinned, wrapping his cloak around him. He made a sign of the cross and stared at Sansa for a moment. “You’re in His hands now. Maybe this pit is the one that leads to Hell. I suspect that’s where you’re headed…you and that damned witch of a northerner. I’ll deal with her in good time.”

Sansa screamed as she heard Duncan walk away. Her voice broke from the cold, and after several minutes, fell silent as she cried. She didn’t know how much time had passed, but it had been far too long, and no one else was coming to her aid. This was it. Sansa was going to die here, right here.

“ _Let go_ ,” that little voice returned with such sweetness. “ _Let go and come with me_.”

Sansa couldn’t feel her hands as the frost bit her lips and face. She was so tired. Her arms burned from the strain and the freezing cold. She heard voices, so many voices calling her name. From the little spirit, faerie or whatever it was to someone that sounded far more masculine.

She tried to yell out, to tell them but her voice only squeaked. Her hands weakened and felt herself slip a little but she tried again in vain to hold on.

“ _He won’t come for you_ ,” the girlish voice said sadly. “ _But I’m here. I’ve always been here for you. Come with me, Sansa_.”

It was the first time it spoke her name, and Sansa’s bleary eyes darted around in fear. She couldn’t hold on much longer.

“ _Let go_ ,” it said again.

“I’m afraid,” she breathed, looking down into the darkness.

“ _Don’t be afraid. It’s beautiful there, you’ll see and never want to come back_ ,” it spoke serenely.

“I’ll be dead. I’m not ready to die yet,” Sansa sobbed. “I’m going to die at the bottom of a pit.”

“ _You won’t die. I am with you. You will be happy, I promise. You are sad here. He will not come for you, and it will burn_ ,” it said.

Sansa thought of how many times Petyr had saved her, and for a moment she thought she heard his voice again calling her name. Her hands tightened in pain on the roots and remembered Mrs. Ames words. Sansa didn’t know why she said them at the time, but she did as the woman told her.

 _Hold on, my dear girl. Don’t let go yet. You are stronger than you know_.

She took a deep breath and screamed as loud as her body would allow that it left her dizzy. The cold numbness was taking over, and Sansa felt her hands slip again, forcing the cloak to tighten under her chin. Sansa’s feet scrambled but couldn’t find footing in the frozen earth. She would never be found, and Petyr would be free.

She would be free. No more pain. No more sadness. Is that what _Tir Na n'Og_ was? Heaven? Soon Sansa would know.

A voice called out in desperation. It was coming closer. It sounded so much like Father. Was he waiting for her after all this time? He was going to lead her to him and her family waiting in heaven? Sansa’s frozen lips curled into a smile and called out to him weakly.

“I’m here. Wait for me,” Sansa breathed shallowly.

A wolf howled and whined as it scurried anxiously above her, kicking snow onto her face. The white wolf barked loudly, and this time Sansa could hear his voice clearly. He was so close, and she was finally ready to let go. She never should have left her family. She should have stood there with them, proudly at the end.

“Sansa!” he cried.

Her hand finally slipped when a strong one grabbed it fiercely while another tugged her arm. Sansa’s body went limp as her vision faded. A dark figure braced itself against the lightness of the snow holding onto her. It didn’t sound like her father anymore. Sansa wondered as she drifted off if Duncan was right after all. Maybe it was the devil that held her and that it was hell she was destined for.

“Brune! William! Over here! I can’t hold her!” the voice yelled in anguish. Someone was holding on to her for dear life.

“Let me go,” she gasped breathlessly.

“Never. I’ve got you. Don’t let go of my hand,” the figure begged. Sansa felt him struggle to hold her when she heard the voice cry out desperately before her eyes fluttered closed.

“Oh, God, help me. _Please_ …”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using a lot of Irish folklore in this fic.


	28. Chapter 28

 

 

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“Hemsley, how long until the repairs are finished?” Petyr asked as he observed the men working on Royce’s carriage.

“Not long now, m’lord. I believe we’ll have them on their way before the hour is out. If the weather holds, I daresay they’ll make it to Lord Holloway’s Town before nightfall. Lord Royce might want to consider taking a boat there and make for Gulltown instead. The mountain roads through the Vale will most likely be treacherous if the snow continues,” the man advised looking to the northeast.

Petyr studied the dark clouds closing in. It would be a heavy snow tonight, wagering he would have to take a sleigh in a few days for his own travels. He had planned on doing just as Hemsley was alluding to. Petyr didn’t fancy wintering in Gulltown, but if he waited too long, he would be stuck here instead.  After last night, he didn’t know how long he would last cooped up with a woman that detested his very presence.

First, Petyr needed Myranda and her father to leave. He couldn’t allow them to spend the night. Walking back inside to the grand hall, he glanced up the stairs saying a silent prayer, hoping Sasna would stay in her room and not venture down to discover their unexpected guests.

“Baelish,” Petyr turned around at the irritated voice grumbling towards him. “Are your men incompetent or just slow minded? A troll could have fixed that wheel by now.”

Petyr held his tongue wishing the Royce’s had been stranded on Kings Road and robbed by highwaymen instead.

“I’ll have you on your way shortly,” Petyr replied with a smile but kept Hemsley’s warning to himself. Nestor Royce was an ungrateful bastard and lucky Petyr offered his assistance at all. The last thing he needed was to meet up with them in Gulltown.

Just then, Myranda made her way towards him, and Petyr sighed inwardly. All he wanted to do was escape back to his study.

“Such a shame we cannot stay and dine with you and Sansa tonight,” she smiled.

“As lovely as that would be,” he answered graciously, “You best be on your way before the storm comes or you’ll end up here longer than you would like.”

“Would that be so terrible?” she sweetened.

“Yes,” Petyr and her father answered in unison while Royce blathered on.

“Courtesy demands that I accept and thank you for your hospitality in our time of need, but even you, Baelish, can understand that I cannot allow my daughter to stay under this roof. Her reputation is at stake as the future duchess who should not be associating with the likes of a Stark, even if she is your wife by law.”

“Obviously,” Petyr replied, keeping himself in check. “Certainly, the new duke, wouldn’t care for his son’s young bride to be dining with the last remaining person the north holds affection for.”

“See here Baelish,” Royce retorted hotly.

“You’re in _my_ home, Lord Royce, even if by accident. You are insulting my wife. She is my wife, regardless of her heritage of which she has no power over,” Petyr calmly stood his ground. “You came to me for aid, I might add, and I have supplied it amply. Out of sheer restraint, I shall not speak what is in my mind. If you’ll excuse me.”

Petyr turned on his heel and walked up the stairs leaving a flustered Lord Royce and his smug daughter behind. He had enough of this damn charade. It was over with, Petyr was publicly humiliated by his own making and served Sansa up for them to tear apart all to get away from them. He would be damned if they would insult her in her own home and in front of him. They didn’t need to know he was leaving or that she hated him. Petyr would still defend her honor no matter what she thought of him.

He passed her bedroom door and paused. Should he tell her they were here? He didn’t want her to find out on her own. Petyr gently rapped on her door, but only Lady could be heard with an annoyed yelp. He waited, but Sansa ignored him. He debated on confronting her regardless, but in the end, Petyr figured she did not want to talk to him today. He couldn’t blame her.

He walked into his study and poured himself a whiskey staring out the window. Petyr gazed out over the woods and remembered Sansa scaring the wits out of that local man. _His little witch_ , he smiled. What Petyr would give to go back to when he believed Sansa might have softened to him. He couldn’t have imagined it all. Something was there between them. If he hadn’t pushed so hard to seduce her, maybe… If he had been more honest, if he had told her… _if, if, if._

A headache was brewing fast, and all Petyr wanted to do was drown it in alcohol. He did not want to go downstairs again and face Royce or Myranda. He didn’t want to even think about packing his things for Gulltown. The very thought of leaving her was making him ill.

Petyr didn’t know how much time had passed when William knocked on his door. The decanter was almost empty as he watched the graceful snow flutter down outside.

“Yes?”

“Pardon me, m’lord,” the young footman opened the door slightly. “Lord Royce’s carriage is ready. Mrs. Ames packed his lordship a basket for the journey.”

The boy stalled, and Petyr raised an eyebrow.

“Anything else?” he quipped. “I have no intention of seeing them off if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

“Well, m’lord,” William cleared his throat. “Lord Royce, sent me to fetch his daughter, but I cannot find her. I thought…”

“You thought she was here with me?” Petyr frowned and watched the boy’s face fill with fear, quickly changing his tone. “As you can see, she is not. I haven’t the faintest clue where…”

Petyr’s eyes fixed on a point over William’s shoulder and paused. _Damnit_ , he thought.

“Tell, Royce we’ll find her. She’s bound to be snooping around here someplace,” he smirked, putting the lad at ease, yet Petyr couldn’t stop staring at Sansa’s door.

William quickly left as Petyr finished off his drink. If Myranda were in Sansa’s room berating her, there would be hell to pay. Petyr didn’t care if the girl was the future duchess or not. He was ready to wring her neck if she snuck up here to make Sansa feel worse.

_Damnit, he wouldn’t have it!_

Without knocking, Petyr opened Sansa’s door a crack and announced himself. The room was empty except for the excited wolf that leapt down from the bed, pawing at his pant leg.

“Sansa?” he called out seeing the bathroom door open.

Silence greeted him as he pushed Lady down. Petyr called her name again, but he knew she wasn’t here. He closed his eyes at the thought and knew he needed to go downstairs. Petyr commanded Lady to stay as she whined, but the last thing he needed was the wolf attacking Myranda again.

Closing the door, Petyr made his way to the balcony and listened for any of them. It was strangely quiet, putting him on edge. Heading down the stairs, Royce came out of the parlor and began to ask about his daughter when Petyr waved him off, saying they were looking for her already.

The music room was empty, as was the ballroom, dining hall, and the foyer. Duncan had suggested he last saw the brunette in the library as Petyr was already heading there. The fire crackled and yet no Myranda or Sansa. Petyr was about to leave when he spied a figure out on the terrace. Sansa tended to go outside even in the falling snow to be alone and searching for Myranda was suddenly forgotten.

Opening the glass-paned doors, the cold hit his face and Petyr thought the girl was mad for staying out here. The figure that approached him wasn’t Sansa but Myranda in just her dress with no pelisse or cloak to keep her warm.

“Why are you out here?” he demanded. “I have enough to deal with without your father blaming an illness on me too.”

“You _are_ sour today, aren’t you?” Myranda grinned. “Isn’t your little wife taking care of your needs?”

Petyr wasn’t falling for her pathetic game.

“Myranda, I’m not in the mood to spar with you right now,” he smirked. “In fact, I am looking for my wife at the moment. Have you seen her?”

“Sansa?” Myranda smiled thinly. “Why, no. I just came out here to take in the view for a moment. I was tired of my father complaining. Is the carriage ready?”

“Yes,” Petyr replied, glancing around the garden. “Your father wishes to leave as soon as possible.”

“Well, it is very chilly out here, isn’t it? I can’t imagine anyone wanting to be out here without any warmth,” she purred. “We are alone, Petyr. No need for any pretense.”

“Pretense?” he chuckled darkly. “You still think we’re playing this game of the lovers?”

Myranda cozied up to him and smiled seductively.

“Why not?” she cooed. “Just because you’re married and I’m soon to be shouldn’t stop us from a little fun now and then. I rather enjoyed fucking you, and unless I’m completely wrong, you did too. Clearly, little Sansa isn’t very skilled in the bedroom.”

“And just where will we meet up? Hmm?” he played along suspiciously as she slid her arms around his neck. “I highly doubt you’ll be leaving Winterfell any time soon, if at all.”

Her body was warm and ice cold at the same time as she pressed into him. Myranda had been out here longer than she said. She lied to him just now.

“What do you mean by that?” she japed. “I’ll visit home often, and when I’m duchess, I’ll do as I please.”

Petyr chuckled under his breath and smiled.

“Do you even know who you are marrying?” he jested, undraping her arms from his neck. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Petyr knew Roose to be a traitorous and ruthless son of a bitch. He and his men were known for rape, murder, and using torture for entertainment. The rumor was that his son, Ramsay, was really a bastard. The boy had a far more terrible reputation than his father, which is why Petyr was mortified at the notion of Joffrey wanting to marry Sansa off to him.

 “You’ll have a young husband that will surely keep you busy producing heirs, I’m sure,” he smiled, pushing her away. “So why you continue to play with me is confounding. Frankly, I don’t want to be on Roose’s bad side by having an affair with his son’s bride. You will not be just some idiot’s wife in Kings Landing in need of a good shagging, my dear.”

“And yet you’re stuck with that prude,” she laughed bitterly, pulling away. “I suppose that’s what you get for bringing her with you. I told you it was stupid. Should have just fucked her and sold her to a brothel. I hope bedding her was worth being forced to marry the chit. Tell me, does she just lie there quiet as the dead while you fuck her? Or have you lost interest already?”

The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Her father was a dirty dog, and Myranda was a nasty, little bitch. She played Sansa for a fool that day at his townhouse. Myranda didn’t love him any more than he did her. It was a business arrangement, and nothing more. Petyr would never have fucked Myranda if he hadn’t been weak that day. She managed to get the better of him when she lowered her mouth on him. However, it took a vivid image of his redhead writhing beneath him to fuck the brunette whore on the lounge.

“Be sure to write me all about how Ramsay fucks you and then we’ll discuss it,” he smirked. “I hear he’s as foul-tempered and brutal as his father. We’re both greedy in different ways, my dear. However, I do feel you’re going to pay a higher price for your new title, if and when you get it. Me? I can always get another mistress and make more money. My situation hasn’t changed, even if we had been married.”

That wiped the smile off her face, and Petyr didn’t even have to admit to being in love with Sansa to do it. There wasn’t much information on Roose’s son, but Petyr didn’t lie. What little there was to know, was Ramsay was worse than his father and that did not bode well for Lady Myranda.

She could gloat and insult Sansa all she liked, but comeuppance was about to rear its ugly head. Petyr’s first instinct that day, when both ladies had cornered the wolf near his study, told him there was no love lost between them from the Vale. Witnessing how terribly Sansa was treated by Lysa and her courtiers at the Eyrie was enough to tell Petyr that Myranda was no friend to her. The brunette was nothing to him, and frankly, Petyr didn’t care what happened to her now.

 Myranda tried to regain her composure with a stern smile.

“Even if that whore gives you an heir, it won’t do you any good. From what I hear, she and your future children will be shunned by society. You’d be better off with a bastard from one of your mistresses. At least _my_ children will inherit a grand title, estate and be respected. You best get used to staying here for a long time, Petyr. You and your family will never be welcome anywhere else,” Myranda sneered viciously.

Petyr didn’t care as her intended insult did not affect him in the slightest. He knew what was coming for Myranda, which made him smile faintly. She and her father could gloat all they liked, it still didn’t change what the future would truly bring. It mattered not what the ton thought of him or Sansa. Their petty games and bouts of cruelty would be short-lived.

“A lot can happen between now and never,” he said, holding her steady gaze. “I believe your father is searching for you. Best not keep him waiting. Goodbye, _Your Grace_.”

Myranda shoved passed him into the house, and Petyr hoped that was the last time he would ever have to see her or her dreadful family again. She was surely marching into a mess with the Boltons and had no idea. All she saw was a title. The woman was clueless about the north and the people in it. She couldn’t even fathom how much power Petyr wielded in the Vale. Royce thought he had gained so much with Lysa’s death and the man couldn’t have been more obtuse. Petyr still had a far greater hold on Robert than anyone would have suspected.

Walking back to the foyer, Petyr could see Royce ascending his carriage. Finally, he sighed in relief. Retreating into the music room hoping Sansa might be there, Petyr found it empty. He sat at the piano silently and rested his fingers on the ivory keys. He hadn’t played since that day that Sansa outed him to Myranda. He was angry with her forcing him to showcase a talent he kept private. It was a form of release when he was alone. Without another thought, his fingers glided effortlessly as a gentle tune emerged and filled the room. A few servants passed by slowly, and Petyr knew they were watching him curiously. Coming from him, music was probably the last thing they expected.

He played composed pieces occasionally, but mostly he just liked to let the music come to him. With improvising, he found a strange peace. His fingers would find the melody, and it was one of the few things that genuinely calmed him. He teased Sansa on why he would come down here in the middle of the night. He was keeping up appearances of the ghostly musician, but it was one of the few times he could be completely be himself.

Petyr wasn’t sure how long he played hoping Sansa might hear and come to him. He needed to talk to her before he left. He couldn’t leave things like this. The clouds were getting darker as the storm approached and it began snowing harder outside. A footman started lighting candles in the room, and yet Sansa stayed away. Had she met with Myranda today and was avoiding him?

The music died, and Petyr walked back upstairs believing she had returned to her room. This time Lady refused to stay inside any longer and followed him as he checked the bathroom and then his connecting bedroom. William was stoking the fire in his study when Petyr wandered in.

“Have you seen Lady Sansa, William?” Petyr asked, and something did not sit right with him.

“No, m’lord. I haven’t seen her all day,” the boy replied. “Is everything all right?”

“It’s nothing,” he replied and sought out Sansa’s maid, Sarah. She was the last one Petyr spoke to in regards to her mistress. The girl was carrying a bundle of linen down the hallway when inquired about his wife. She, too, had not seen Sansa since this morning. As Petyr headed back downstairs, Duncan came from the direction of the kitchens.

“Do you know where my wife is, Duncan?” Petyr asked with growing concern.

“I do not, my lord. Has she wandered off again?” the butler inquired simply. “She tends to be in the gardens in the afternoon, I believe, with the – dog.”

Lady growled as the old man backed away slightly.

“She never goes out without Lady,” Petyr supplied. “Duncan, bring her to me.”

The man nodded at the order and turned back to the kitchens. She very well could be with Mrs. Ames, but Petyr had a sinking feeling that wouldn’t go away. Sansa was angry with him yet no one seemed to know her whereabouts, and she kept Lady locked in her room.

Petyr returned upstairs as Lady obediently followed. He found Sarah and told her and the other servants to check every room for their mistress. Petyr had an idea and retreated to his bedroom,  commanding Lady to stay. Inside his dressing room, he pressed a panel that opened into a dark corridor. Lighting a candle, he stepped inside and followed it to a hidden stairwell that circled down to the first floor. It was freezing until the steam drifted from further down. Petyr passed the locked oak door and found the stairs leading down to the hot spring below the house.

He had forbidden her to return down here, but Sansa wasn’t one to obey his rules. He was ready with a sarcastic quip, feeling certain she was down here hiding from the Royces, but it was dark. No torch or candle in the dark space.

“Sansa?” he called out into the darkness. “It’s only me.”

No one answered back, and his stomach dropped. Petyr took two steps at a time up the stairs and exited through the panel in the music room, not caring if anyone saw. Duncan came around the corner and shook his head in dismay.

“She is nowhere in the house, my lord. I just came from the terrace and couldn’t see her anywhere. This storm is getting worse, I fear,” Duncan apologized and waited for Petyr’s instructions.

Petyr strode into the kitchen and found Mrs. Ames speaking to two upstairs maids.

“Mrs. Ames…” he began.

“Lord Baelish, I have every servant looking for her in every conceivable place. Both girls saw Lady Sansa this afternoon upstairs by the balcony,” the housekeeper gesturing to the two maids looking anxious at the master of the house. “Tell his lordship what you know,” she told the girls.

“M’lord, she overheard us talking about the visitors and said she was going downstairs to greet them,” the blonde stuttered fearfully. “That was the last we saw of her.”

So, his intuition was right. Myranda had spoken to her and lied about it. Why? Petyr had first left them in the library and then found Myranda later out on the terrace in only her dress. She wasn’t just taking in the view. Sansa was outside, Petyr knew it in his bones.

The servants followed as Petyr ran back to the library.

“She usually leaves her pelisse here to dry when she goes out, m’lord,” one footman voiced. Petyr looked around, and there was nothing of hers. No cloak, pelisse, gloves, nothing.

“God in Heaven,” Mrs. Ames breathed. “She wouldn’t be foolish enough to go out in that with Lady, would she?”

“The wolf is in my room,” Petyr replied in kind. No, she went outside to speak with Myranda or get away from her. The latter seemed more true. “I want all available men to search the grounds. She could be hurt. In this weather, she won’t last long. It will be dark soon.”

“Are you sure she is outside, my lord?” Duncan asked from the edge of the room.

“Yes,” Petyr answered. “I know she is. We must not waste any more time. Saddle the horses and check the stables for her. See if any horses are missing. We may need to search around the woods and the lake.”

Petyr ran back upstairs and released Lady from his room. Donning his cloak and gloves, he rushed back down with the wolf in tow and felt sick. He had not felt such dread since Sansa ran away from the inn months ago. When he found her beaten and almost raped, Petyr wanted nothing more than to protect her from everything and everyone. He and Brune killed those men that dared touch her.

If he ever got his hands on Myranda, it would be the second time in his life, he murdered a woman. She was behind this. She hated Sansa and what the girl had stolen from her. Petyr just underestimated how much.

Brune and William caught up with him as the horses were brought around the back.

“All the horses are accounted for, Petyr,” Brune advised.

“With this heavy snowfall, she could be partially buried by now,” Petyr told them. “Be careful to check everywhere. I don’t know how far she could have traveled by foot unless she’s injured or unconscious.”

Petyr mounted his horse and didn’t wait. Brune sent men in all directions as William took others by foot. Petyr came around the back of the house and yelled as loud as he could.

“Sansa!” his voice echoed back to him.

Lady jumped through the deep snow and barked relentlessly behind him.

_Goddamnit, woman. Where are you?_

“Come on, girl. Find her,” Petyr commanded Lady.

The wolf dug her nose through the snow and wandered around. She understood that her mistress was missing and was searching for her scent. Petyr guided the horse around, making sure he wasn’t stepping on Sansa somewhere in the snow. He could see men heading off near the water wheels and woods on horseback. Others were nearing the lake and Petyr could see Brune off in the distance on the other side of the grounds.

The storm was worsening by the minute as he and Lady made their way across the grounds. Voices were yelling her name in the distance as heavy snowfall muted light from lanterns while they searched. Petyr watched the wolf in anticipation. That animal was a part of her in some way, and yet it was having trouble discovering her whereabouts. William trudged his way over as Petyr searched around the gardens nearing the labyrinth.

“Nothing,” he gasped in cold air. “Not a damned thing, my lord.”

Brune was making his way towards them with a group of men. It was getting darker and the storm threatened to bury them all. Petyr couldn’t accept it. Sansa was out here somewhere. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did. The wind picked up, and Petyr thought he heard a voice floating with it. He told everyone to be quiet for a moment and listened.

“Sansa!” he yelled and listened again.

Something caught Lady’s attention, and she darted towards the labyrinth, barking in panic. She sniffed through the snow and yelped at the entrance to the maze. Petyr was just about to call out to her again when, this time, he heard a definite scream. It was weak and muffled, but it was a woman’s voice.

Lady took off leaping over the wood as Petyr climbed off his horse and ran although the deep snow slowed him down. The wood planks had been moved, and Petyr’s heart sank. Sansa was in there, and the wolf knew it. He followed the Lady’s tracks but took care where he stepped. Petyr knew there were traps, oubliettes and all manners of danger inside the maze. The Mad King loved his petty torture games.

He called out to her again but only heard the panicked howl of the wolf, but Petyr felt he was getting closer. Turning another corner, he saw Lady pacing and dipping her head in what was definitely an oubliette. Some were deep pits, others had sharpened spikes, and they used to put wild animals in others.

Petyr ran and almost slid over the edge when he reached down and grasped her gloved hand. A mere moment later, she would have been lost forever. Sansa’s cloak was caught on branches and roots, practically strangling her. He braced his legs, but the snow was making him slip. He reached down with his free hand to keep her from falling any further.

“Brune! William! Over here, I can’t hold her!” he bellowed.

Her face was turning blue from cold and lack of air. Petyr shifted his weight, but she was heavy in this position where he barely had a hold on her. His muscles were screaming as he tried desperately to get his hand under her shoulder for leverage.

“Let me go,” she breathed. Her eyes were glassy and didn’t seem to see him.

“Never,” Petyr grunted from the effort. “I’ve got you. Don’t let go of my hand.”

If she let go, he wouldn’t be able to hold her much longer. Her hand was bloody and even with the glove, it was slipping out of his. No, he wasn’t going to lose her. Not like this.

“Oh God, help me… _please_ ,” he heard his voice beg and felt a painful click in his shoulder.

The two men answered his plea as he heard them come closer. Brune braced his leg against on the side of the pit and held onto the roots trying to grab her. William supported Petyr’s body and reached in, pulling on the arm that held her bloody hand. It took the three of them to haul her unconscious body up and over the edge without falling to their deaths.

William pulled her to a safe distance before helping Petyr slide back while Brune climbed out. The three men sat in exhaustion for a moment. The snow was coming down hard now, and Petyr needed to get her inside and warm. Her cloak was caked in snow and mud as he unclasped it from around her neck.

Sansa was cold as ice and Petyr couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not. He removed his cloak and wrapped it around her frozen body. His arms were burning, but Petyr lifted her up and carefully followed their tracks in the snow. He could hear Brune advise William to be wary of where he stepped as they finally saw the large archway, leading them out of the labyrinth.

Men had heard the yelling as many of them watched in the dim light while Petyr carried his limp wife across the gardens to the tiered terrace. Mrs. Ames and house servants rushed outside as he almost stumbled from the effort. His shoulder was piercing with pain, and Petyr wondered vaguely if he pulled the joint free. William took over and lifted Sansa into his arms as the warmth of the interior was a shocking contrast to the bitter cold.

“Mrs. Ames, draw a hot bath immediately. She’s frozen through,” Petyr gasped following Brune and William into the grand hall. “She been out there for some time. Brune, ride to Lord Holloway’s and bring Doctor Barnett.”

Mrs. Ames and three maids hurried up the stairs on the master’s order, following William with their unconscious mistress. Brune left immediately as they crested the second floor. Petyr clutched his arm and followed them into her bedchamber. William laid her on the marble of the bathroom as the women pumped the tub full of hot water.

“William, fetch me these herbs,” Mrs. Ames asked kindly coming in from Sansa’s room.  Petyr knelt down and unwrapped the cloak from Sansa’s still form on the floor. Mrs. Ames handed the boy a piece of paper she had hastily scribbled on.

“Sarah, go with William. Lord Baelish and I will take care of her,” she told the maid that cried softly in the corner.

Petyr shrugged off his jacket and winced in pain, tossing the garment and gloves aside. Mrs. Ames looked around the room and picked up his straight-edged razor near the washbasin. Petyr picked Sansa up and held her cold body against his chest. Mrs. Ames cut away the laces of her wet and muddy dress. Together they undressed the girl quickly. Petyr held his breath at the sight. Sansa was ghostly pale and icy to the touch. He willed away the thought she might be dead.

“Can you lift her?” the old woman asked, eyeing his shoulder.

“Take her legs,” Petyr said as he hooked his arms under hers, lifting Sansa up and into the warm bathing tub.

Petyr supported her head as it threatened to lull down into the water.

“We’ll need to gradually warm her and add more hot water in intervals,” she spoke calmly. “Clean her up best you can. She has a deep cut on her hand. I need to get my salve. Support her neck and watch her breathing.”

All at once, the woman rushed out while Petyr stayed kneeling next to Sansa. He caressed her cool face and leaned in close. She was breathing shallow and he could see a red mark just under her jaw where the cloak had cut into her neck.

_Let me go_

Petyr’s eyes took her in before kissing her forehead. Sansa was so cold and he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.

_Never_

He took the small washcloth from the little table and dipped it in the water. Petyr lathered the lemon soap she liked so much and gently wiped away the dirt from her face. Sansa had a few cuts on her cheek and he was tender not to cause her pain. Petyr was picking some dead leaves and twigs from her hair when Mrs. Ames returned with Sarah.

Petyr supported her head and spoke softly to her, hoping she would wake while the women worked. Mrs. Ames was cleaning the cuts on her hands while Sarah helped bathe her. The maid would let out some of the dirty water and pump in fresh and warmer water. Petyr pulled Sansa against him again and let Sarah wash her hair. His shirt and waistcoat were soaked through but he didn’t care. They repeated the routine again and before long, a rosy color returned to Sansa’s now clean skin. Sarah dried her hair, pulling it back into neat plaits and Mrs. Ames was now bandaging the girl’s hands as they hung lifelessly over the tub.

The tub was drained and Petyr lifted Sansa up with effort and cradled most of her weight with his uninjured arm. He carried her to the next room where Sarah and already turned down the bedclothes and used a warming pan. The fire was stoked high as Petyr laid Sansa down on her bed. Sarah came over with a fresh chemise in her hands and Petyr lifted Sansa up once again.

“No, don’t bother. She’ll soak it through. It will be easier to change the linens. She will have a fever, no doubt, after such exposure,” Mrs. Ames explained.

Petyr laid her back down and pulled the soft linens up, keeping her modesty. Sansa would be furious knowing he had seen her at her most vulnerable and bare. Petyr smiled at the thought of her beating him senseless. He would welcome it, just knowing she was alive and well.

“Let me take a look at that shoulder, my lord,” the old woman voiced concern as she tinkered with several jars and various things on a nearby table.

Petyr sat down on a plush ottoman and supported his arm. He watched Sarah fuss over Sansa when Mrs. Ames unbuttoned his shirt and he gave her a surprised glance.

“I didn’t take you as a shy man,” she smirked. “Come now, let me see what you’ve done to yourself.”

Petyr was too worried about the girl in the bed and didn’t have the heart to admonish the old woman for her little japes. He opened his waistcoat and shirt, letting her inspect his shoulder.

“Could have been worse,” she muttered to herself and lifted his arm at an odd angle, making him hiss. Before he could protest, Petyr felt a sharp click, and the pain lessened dramatically. “There,” she smiled. “If I make a sling, it should heal well enough.”

Petyr’s attention returned to his wife on the bed and Mrs. Ames followed his gaze.

“Now, don’t you fret. I’ll take good care of this precious girl. She’ll be up and playing that piano before you know it,” the woman patted his good shoulder. “Go clean yourself up, my lord. We’ll watch over her, have no fear. William is going to bring up a hot supper for you shortly.”

Petyr was left speechless at his good fortune as far as servants. Mrs. Ames was a godsend, and if anyone could be trusted with Sansa, it was her. He looked down and saw how filthy he was. He was covered in muck from the labyrinth. Reluctantly, Petyr stood and retreated to the bathroom. This was not a time for a leisure bath as he filled the tub with hot water. In no time, he had toweled off and dressed, opting for his soft robe instead of a jacket.

Sansa’s room was warm and the scent of bitter herbs filled the air as Mrs. Ames was concocting some sort of foul-smelling tincture at the table laden with medicines. Petyr sat down next to Sansa and watched her labored breathing. The girl had practically choked herself to death. If the cold and fall didn’t kill her, the cloak would have.

“Sweetling, can you hear me?” he breathed next to her ear. “You’re safe, and you must wake.”

“Talk to her,” the woman advised with her back to him. “She can hear you.”

“How do you know?” he replied a bitterly. Mrs. Ames knew Sansa did not want to be married to him. Why would she want to hear his voice?

“Because she is strong… and she listens to you,” Mrs. Ames grinned knowingly. “If anyone is going to get through to her, it’s you. Sarah, will you be a dear and fetch Lord Baelish something to eat? He will need his strength.”

The girl left abruptly before Mrs. Ames shut the door quietly, observing him in a gentle manner.

“Mrs. Ames,” he began, “You are unfailingly kind but you and I both know how she feels about me. I’m the last person she would want at her bedside.”

She walked over to the bed, sitting on the opposite side.

“I know a great many things, my lord,” she smiled sadly. “Whatever else you may be, a good man or not… you love her very much. Something you should have told her by now.”

Petyr was shocked at her boldness and the truth of it. Mrs. Ames was far more observant than he gave her credit for. It still didn’t change the fact that Sansa hated him now.

“You forget yourself,” he tried to be stern.

“At my age, that is a frequent thing, my lord,” she japed. “When you get to my years, you tend to speak your mind more often. What’s the worst to happen, you’ll cut short my young life?”

Petyr hid his smile. She was so like Mrs. Cole as Petyr had become quite fond of the old woman. She meant well. He didn’t agree with the ‘good man’ part, but there was no lie in the fact that Petyr loved Sansa dearly. She was right. He should have told her long before now. She was lying here now because of him and his damned games.

“Tell her,” she eyed him from across the bed. “She needs to hear it. She won’t fight for me or anyone else. She’ll fight for you if she believes.”

Petyr sighed and picked up Sansa’s bandaged hand.

“She told me to ‘ _let her go’_ ,” he breathed in dismay. Petyr didn’t know why he was telling Mrs. Ames this. The guilt, fear, and a thousand emotions he was harboring were too much as Sansa lay helpless on the bed.

“Yet, you didn’t – so don’t let her go now. Give her hope, that there is something to come back to,” he could hear the smile in her voice. “Someone that loves her. She needs your love desperately.” Mrs. Ames picked up Sansa’s other hand and caressed her palm, deep in thought. “She has very little time to savor it,” the woman whispered, and Petyr wasn’t sure what she meant.

Petyr kissed Sansa’s hand, and after a moment, noticed Mrs. Ames was gone. Had she spoken those words just a moment ago or what his mind telling him what to do? A little while later, Sarah walked in with a tray and set it down on a table before bidding them goodnight.

He barely ate at a thing and pulled the chair next to the bed. Petyr dabbed Sansa’s forehead with a cold cloth and took her hand in his again. Regardless of how warm the room and bed was; her hands were still icy to the touch. He cupped her hand in his, careful of her wound.

_Talk to her_

What could he say to bring her back? Mrs. Ames was kind, but she wasn’t witness to what happened last night. Sansa hated him, accused him of hurting her. She didn’t object to him leaving.

Petyr kissed her cold fingers and wondered what she and Myranda said to one another. Why in God’s name would Sansa go into the labyrinth? He told her so many times it was dangerous. He heard her scream, but in the end, Sansa didn’t want him to save her. Now, here she lay and Petyr wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

Sansa had been so depressed since leaving Kings Landing. He knew she was unhappy but not to this extent. Did Myranda feed her more lies? It couldn’t possibly matter, for she was going north. The ton would not come to Harrenhal. Sansa would not have to be a victim to their terrible gossip and stares. She would be a free and wealthy woman here and not bound to him in any way. Petyr hadn’t been unking to her or attempted to force intimacy.

Petyr couldn’t wrap his mind on why she would venture out in this weather, let alone enter the labyrinth. He watched her for a long time until his eyes were too tired to stay open any longer. She would wake in the morning and everything would be different. He would tell Sansa what was in his heart. If she still loathed him, Petyr would leave as he planned.

Closing his eyes, he told himself – _just for a moment. I only need to rest for a few minutes…_

 

* * *

 

 

Men were arguing in the distance as Petyr began to wake. His neck and shoulder were stiff and sore. He had the most terrible dream that Sansa was burning, and she was wailing his name.

Jolting awake, he was still in the chair beside her bed while Sansa was mumbling incoherently. Beads of sweat trickled down her face as Sarah was taking a cool cloth to her damp skin. The maid looked up and cowered a bit.

“Mrs. Ames said not to wake you, m’lord,” the girl whispered.

Petyr leaned over his wife. She was in a feverish fit. Her head tossed back and forth and Mrs. Ames was right. They would need to change the linens as they were already damp with sweat. He looked around and wondered where the hell everyone was.

He strode to the door just as it opened and Brune was pulling the doctor in. Mrs. Ames was protesting about something or other as William held her back in the hallway.

“Here he is, Lord Petyr,” Brune shoved the man in the room. “Took some persuading.”

“I object to being treated in this fashion!” the round and balding physician exclaimed. “Pulled out of my bed and into this storm. For what? The M\marquess’ new whore?…”

Petyr frowned and stood before the man unyielding.

“You best watch your tongue if you wish to keep it,” Petyr warned him. “My wife is ill, and you will tend to her or have you forgotten I’m lord of these lands? I do believe I have treated you well, doctor.”

The man looked to Sansa on the bed and back to him and immediately apologized.

“Lord Baelish, I did not know you had taken a wife. I thought it was a trick to bring me out here calling the girl the lady of the house,” the man stuttered. “Your reputation and all…I don’t tend to whores and mistresses.”

“Even if she was, is my money not good enough for you?” Petyr growled.

The man shrank back and bumped into Brune’s large body. “Of course, my lord. Of course,” the doctor whispered in fear. “I can see how I was mistaken. Please forgive me. Being woken in the dead of night and riding all the way out here… I am not myself.” The doctor walked over to the bed and stared at Sansa. “Yes, you were quite right to bring me.”

Doctor Barnett examined her, feeling her throat, forehead and checking each eye. Petyr heard a disgruntled sigh and turned to see Mrs. Ames leaning against the door with her arms crossed and a deep frown on her face.

“Yes, she has the fever on her,” the doctor pointed out the obvious. “What is that smell?” The man wrinkled his nose and saw the table with all of Mrs. Ame’s remedies. He walked around the bed and picked up a few bottles.

“Oh, m’lord, tell me you haven’t had some madwoman tending to your young wife, have you?” the man jeered as both looked in the housekeeper’s direction. “Only northern peasants would use such things… cast spells and God knows what else.”

“Are you calling me a witch?” the old woman retorted hotly as William held her back.

“Watch your tongue madam. You have no place here,” Barnett scolded. “Get rid of this sorcery. Lady Baelish needs a true physician, not some peasant potions and spells.”

Mrs. Ames looked to Petyr for help, and he felt terrible for nodding to her to take away her medicines. William helped her gather the items, and before she left the room, the woman glanced sadly at Sansa.

“I’ll be downstairs if you need me, my lord,” she told him sincerely.

“Make sure the men have warmth and plenty to eat after last night,” Petyr ordered softly giving her a task. She was trying to help, but Barnett was right, Sansa needed a modern physician.

Brune closed the door after him, leaving Petyr, the doctor and Sarah alone in the room. He opened his bag and took out several items, placing them on the table next to her bed. Petyr sat back down and watched helplessly as the man applied all sorts of remedies to his beloved.

Hours passed slowly, and soon it was nightfall again. The man bled her, tried to feed her some kind of tonic that she unconsciously spat up. She moaned and sometimes cried out as if in terrible pain. All Petyr could do was watch. His nerves were on edge while either pacing the room or fidgeting in his chair. Now, Petyr could only stare out the window. He could hear Lady howling and pawing at the door, begging to be let in. Once, when Sarah opened it, the wolf scurried in, to the fright of the doctor.

The man said it was unhealthy to have such a beast in the house, let alone this room. The wolf growled at the man and refused to leave Sansa’s side. She was protecting her mistress, Petyr knew as he escorted her out and asked Sarah to have Mrs. Ames keep her downstairs for now. All the way down the hallway, he could hear Lady cry and bark as Sarah struggled to pull her away. Petyr closed the door on the sound and sighed in regret. Was he doing the right thing? His mind turned it over and over.

Morning came, and Dr. Barnett was at a loss for words. He bled her again, but the fever only appeared to worsen. Petyr almost couldn’t bear to watch Sansa like this. There was nothing he could do but wait and hope. Every tray of food brought to him went untouched. He refused to sleep, frightened to wake and find her gone.

After taking a rest, the doctor returned with a frown, checking the young mistress again. Petyr couldn’t even look at the man. He knew what the doctor was going to say before the words were spoken.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do, my lord,” he apologized earnestly. “I think – well, that you must prepare yourself. I fear she won’t live out the day.”

“Sarah, bring Duncan and Mrs. Ames to me,” he commanded softly.

A while later, Mrs. Ames came in and gasped at the sight. That alone almost broke him. She knew it as well. However, Petyr noticed she was alone.

“Where’s Duncan?” he asked.

“I know not, m’lord,” she answered, not taking her eyes off the girl in the bed. “We haven’t seen him since Lady Sansa was discovered.”

Petyr frowned. He would deal with him later. How could he just disappear at a time like this?

“Fetch me my purse in the study and bring back your remedies. I wish for you to tend to Sansa,” he instructed, and the doctor objected loudly. At the inn when he was ill, Sansa said she used treatments she learned from the old housekeeper. As much as he hated it, it worked. Mrs. Ames couldn’t do any worse now that the doctor was at a loss.

“I must protest! You would let that woman…” he grumbled. “You would insult a proper physician…”

Petyr held up his hand to halt the man’s tirade. He was exhausted and could barely think straight as it was.

“As you said, you’ve done all you can,” Petyr sighed. “If bathing her in tea would help, I would do it.”

Mrs. Ames returned with his purse, and Petyr counted out a hefty sum in gold, handing it to the doctor while nodded to Brune standing at the door.

“I’m grateful for all you have done. My man will see you home,” Petyr said tiredly and waved him off.

“Let the girl meet God without some witch casting her spells on her,” the doctor preached as Brune pulled him away. “You’re only damning her…”

“Then we’ll burn in hell together,” he muttered under his breath and heard the door click shut. Immediately, Mrs. Ames rushed to Sansa’s side with fear in her eyes. “What can be done? Is it too late?” Petyr breathed.

The woman pulled back the sodden sheet and cursed softly. She felt all around her body, coming at last to Sansa’s hands and feet.

“She’s burning up,” she said. “Her hands and feet are cold, but we need to cool her head and body down. Get cold water and wring out several cloths. On her forehead, behind her neck and then try to cool down her body. I’ll be right back.”

Petyr didn’t hesitate and did what the woman instructed. She was hot to the touch as he gently wiped the cool cloths along the planes of her body. Shortly, Mrs. Ames returned with Sarah in tow with a basin of fresh snow and all the items the doctor protested against.

The girl propped Sansa up with more pillows and pulled back her sweaty hair before going to the bathroom, and Petyr could hear her pumping fresh water into the tub.

“If this doesn’t work, we’ll need to put her in cold water,” she said, putting different herbs together with a decanter of clear alcohol and then handed him heavy linen. “Here, soak that in hot water and wrap it around her feet. We need to bring the fever out of the head.”

The woman used the liniment rub as Petyr did as he was told. He pulled Sansa to sit up as Mrs. Ames wiped down her back and placed linens, packed with snow, on areas of her body. The room was filled with the scent of bitter herbs and alcohol. The women regularly changed the cold compresses, cooling down his wife’s skin.

Petyr had no recollection of time as they worked into the late hours of the night. Once again, William brought a tray of food, and even though Petyr was hungry, his stomach turned at the thought. Lady made a home at the foot of the bed and was strangely silent. She too seemed to be waiting.

“You need to eat something,” he heard the woman say. “You’re no good to her if you make yourself sick. You need to get some sleep as well.”

Petyr shook his head numbly as he sat back down next to Sansa. “I’m not hungry, and I’m not leaving.”

Thankfully, she said no more about it and let him be. Mrs. Ames sensed he wanted to be alone and quietly left the room, closing the door. He wouldn’t have been able to force himself to eat or sleep if he tried. He wasn’t moving from this spot until she awakened or…

No, he wouldn’t think of it. Just as she took care of him, he was going to be there for her. Petyr retook her hand and kissed it. He could smell the salve on her cuts and the alcohol on her skin. Her fingers were no longer cold, and all he could do was wait. He hated the feeling of being utterly useless to help her. The doctor said she wouldn’t live out the day, but it would be dawn soon. If she at least proved him wrong, maybe there was a chance.

Petyr cursed himself silently. He should have let Mrs. Ames take charge from the very beginning. He held Sansa’s hand to his cheek and sighed. She couldn’t leave him. His heart just couldn’t take it. Twice in his life, he loved and lost. Even if she didn’t want to stay with him, Petyr wanted her to live. He leaned above her face and watched as her eyes danced furiously beneath the closed lids. She wasn’t moaning so much now, but she was still feverish.

“Sweetling,” he whispered. “Can you hear me?”

He held her hand and looked for any sign she might give him. Sansa’s breathing was labored, but she didn’t make a sound.

“You need to wake up,” he began as he remembered Mrs. Ames words of advice the other day. “I have so much to tell you, and I need to know you hear me.”

So many opportunities Petyr had, to tell her what he truly felt, but didn’t. He tricked her, lied, used her all for what he wanted. Petyr never asked her what Sansa wanted or needed. Now, she lay her helpless, and she would never know.

He kissed her lips softly, wondering if she would ever allow him to do so ever again.

“Come back to me,” he pleaded softly. “I will do anything you ask of me. _Anything_.”

Petyr’s chest constricted as he left another kiss on her warm forehead before sitting back down, never once letting go of her hand. Could she really hear him? Was it in his power?

“I need you, Sansa. So much,” he breathed and took another cool cloth to her face and neck before putting his lips to her ear. “You have no idea how much I love you. If you just give me another chance, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it to you. But you have to wake up and tell me.”

Petyr waited, and yet her eyes did not open. She did not make a sound, and his heart sank. Wringing out another cloth, he continued wiping her damp skin just to have a task so he wouldn’t go mad. He wasn’t giving up but needed to stay awake. He was so tired.

Petyr hummed a tune he knew as a child and continued his ministrations. Lady unexpectedly jumped up on the foot of the bed and lay at her feet. He thought for a moment that it meant something, that the wolf sensed her coming around, but after several minutes, Lady closed her eyes. Perhaps she knew it was hopeless and waited for the inevitable, too.

Tears stung his eyes as Petyr continued to hum sweetly, caressing her bare arm. Everything he did since taking her from Riverrun, he thought was for the best. Never once did Petyr honestly believe he would harm her. But he did. He hurt her more than he knew. He did this to her. After all his games and intrigues, what he loved was dying in front of him.

Even his long laid plans, all before he met Sansa, did not seem as important anymore. He was still going to be alone when it was all said and done. With her, Petyr thought there was something good on the horizon. When he caught her sketching him that afternoon in the music room, he could see it all before him. Petyr could see the wonderful mother she would become. It was all there, in her eyes. Eyes as blue as a sunlit sea.

Petyr laid his head down, lacing his fingers with hers. His own eyes were so heavy as he forced himself to stay awake. Her hand didn’t move in his, and the overwhelming hopelessness weighed him down. It was all his fault. As much as Petyr fought it, his eyes finally closed against his will.

“Don’t go,” he heard his voice mutter as sleep took him. “I’m right here.”

Long after he drifted off into the void, delicate fingers closed weakly in his.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was a melody Sansa knew, one her mother used to sing when she was frightened or ill. The sweet tune echoed in the darkness, but it was a deeper voice she heard in the distance. Sansa’s head was pounding, and her mouth felt dry as if she hadn’t drunk in ages. Wearily, her eyes peered open. The soft light from the windows of her room was too bright, making her wince.

The song long ended and Sansa saw Mrs. Ames sitting in a chair next to the fire. The old woman didn’t say a word but smiled at her serenely. The last thing Sansa remembered was falling down a hole. The little girl said she should go with her but another voice, a stronger one, said she needed to stay.

_Come back to me_

Sansa moved to sit up a little, only to find one of her hands trapped under something heavy and warm.

“Don’t wake him just yet,” the woman whispered as she came over to the bed. “He hasn’t slept in days.”

Mrs. Ames tilted a cold glass of water so that Sansa could take a sip. The liquid ran down her sore throat, and her hand immediately went to the bruising under her jaw. She remembered the cloak around her neck as she struggled. It hurt when Sansa tried to speak as Mrs. Ames hushed her quietly keeping her eyes on the man asleep next to her.

Sansa looked down at Petyr, holding her hand in slumber, resting under his cheek. How long had they been here?

“It’s been three days, child,” the old woman said quietly as if reading her mind. “I must admit, I wasn’t quite sure you would come around, but the lines of the hand don’t lie. You weren’t meant to go now.”

Sansa glanced at Petyr sleeping soundly, hunched over the bed while still sitting in the chair.

“He never left your side, my dear. Not for a moment,” Mrs. Ames smiled sadly. “Neither slept nor ate as he worried over you. If you ask me, that is only something a man does for one he loves.”

Sansa watched him breathe deeply. His face was slightly turned towards her, and she could see he hadn’t shaved in days. His hair was a mess of black and grey, and there was a bit of a frown creased between his brows. Even in sleep, she could see the exhaustion. Petyr looked older than his years.

“He loves you very much, child,” the woman spoke as Sansa turned to look at her. “He’s been waiting for you to wake up. To be honest, I was worried about what he might do if you died. A man such as him… I’ve never seen such hopelessness in his eyes.”

Sansa tried to speak, but her voice refused. Mrs. Ames let her drink a bit more and smoothed the hair away from her face.

“I think I’ll go tend to Lady,” she smiled. “She’ll be happy to see you. She and Lord Petyr found you, you know. I don’t believe in luck. It was meant to be.”

The housekeeper left the room without making a sound. Petyr must have been exhausted for he didn’t flinch a muscle. He kept her hand in his and Sansa wondered if she should wake him. Turning on her side towards him, her free hand paused over his head, debating the action to take.

Gently, she sifted her fingers through his hair. It was as silken as she remembered. He grunted a little when suddenly, a weary eye opened. Sansa tightened her fingers with his when it took a moment for him to register it all. She smiled softly, and that’s all he needed. Petyr rose up and brought their joined hands to his lips, squeezing his eyes shut. When they opened, he gazed at her in such a way that took Sansa’s breath away. His eyes were swollen with dark circles, but there was something else there that had her heart fluttering madly.

Could Mrs. Ames be right? Did he love her? The way Petyr looked at her now said he did. He reached over tentatively to caress her face, but a breath away he hesitated. She could read it in his eyes. Petyr was questioning if she wanted him to touch her. After all that was said and done between them? He began to pull his hand back when Sansa took it and leaned her cheek into his warm palm. Petyr released a deep breath he had been holding and dropped his head to her chest.

There was no need for words. They both knew. Everything that needed to be said was right here. Every movement, gesture, caress… it was all right here and now. Sansa was a bit grateful she couldn’t speak for she didn’t know if she could find the words that would express everything she was feeling.

Sansa moved back a little, gesturing for him to stay. She tucked the linen around her a bit from shyness. Sansa felt she was naked underneath. Petyr may be her husband, but she wasn’t ready for him to see her just yet. He didn’t attempt to touch her beneath the linen as he moved onto the bed and lay on his side, facing her.

For the longest time, they stared at each other. Sansa was aching to hold him and decided to make the first move. She needed him to know it was all right. Sansa lied when telling Petyr she hated him. No, she wanted him desperately.

Closing the distance, Sansa wrapped her arms around him, snuggling into his chest. Nothing had ever felt so right. After a moment or two, she felt his arms enclose around her waist, and she couldn’t stop the salty tears streaming down. Sansa’s breath hitched, and Petyr held her tighter, resting his chin on top of her head.

He hushed her gently and began to hum a sweet tune – the melody from her dream! It was Petyr’s voice she heard all along. Sansa didn’t know how long time had passed in his arms when the room became silent.

“It was always you,” his rough voice said out of the blue. “I never loved her, I swear to you. You, my little witch, are everything to me. Losing you would destroy me.”

_Little witch_

That brought tears to her eyes. It had become a pet name Petyr gave Sansa, since that day in the woods. Kissing their joined hands, Sansa could barely mutter a word with her sore throat.

“I’m here.”

Sansa would ask him later about Myranda but not right now. Somehow, Sansa knew in her heart that the girl had lied. She should have trusted her first instinct about the woman. It was a discussion she didn’t want to have at the moment. Sansa had many questions about so many things, but right now she just wanted Petyr to stay.

She leaned up as Petyr turned on his back. Sansa studied his face for a moment, searching out the truth. There it was again in his eyes. Petyr was an expert at hiding behind those deceptive greens. Right now, he let her see him. He seemed to be hoping just as much as she but fearing that terrible rejection.

Sansa heard Mrs. Ames advice from that day in the kitchen. Maybe she needed to give him some encouragement. Petyr had always been the one to initiate anything, but perhaps this time, she should be the first. Softy, her index finger traced around his lips. His face was rough with scruffy whiskers as he really needed a shave.

So many emotions crossed his face as she hovered above him. Tentatively, Sansa bent down and closed her mouth over his. It wasn’t passionate or lustful. Just a simple kiss. Petyr caressed her cheek for a moment before she pulled away and rested her head on his chest. She was still dizzy and ill, and all these emotions were making her head spin.

“Petyr,” she forced her groggy voice with a little cough.

“Sshh, we can talk later. Everything will be alright now, I promise. Don’t strain your voice,” Petyr whispered while caressing Sansa’s back.

“Will you take me with you?” she asked uncertainly. Petyr said he was going to Gulltown, had everything changed?

He was silent for a time, and her nerves started to make her uneasy.

“You want to go to Gulltown?”

 _No_ , her mind said instantly. She had been there once and hated it. That was beside the point.

“I want you to stay,” she coughed again, her throat burning. “But only if you want to,” adding at the last minute.

“I want to be wherever you are, sweetling,” he whispered and held her tight. “I’ll take you anywhere you wish to go. If you want to stay here, we’ll stay here. Whatever you want, I’ll do. _Anything_.”

Sansa thought about it and closed her eyes. She was still exhausted and ill. She wanted him to stay in this bed with her. For now, that would do. Sansa didn’t want to think about Myranda anymore or what happened in the labyrinth. She couldn’t tell him about the spirit that almost took her away from him. Still, there was much they had to discuss.

“Petyr?” she breathed into his chest.

“Yes?”

“I have many questions,” she sighed. “I want the truth.”

She felt him take a deep breath and went back to caressing her back again.

“Alright,” he agreed softly. “The truth, my love.”

“Right now, just hold me,” Sansa breathed.

“Until my dying breath.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this story is about to take some different turns, Petyr's game and the political world is still be big obstacle, Sansa has made her herself open to the spirit world and these worlds are about to collide. 
> 
> It's all about choices and the consequences. Some big fluff on the way and then a reality check, because of course this is PxS and they are riddled with drama especially with Petyr's scheming ways, which haven't ended because he's found love. 
> 
> There will be role reversals, twists, at least a few big shockers and some excellent smut inbetween.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and smut... I know some of you have been waiting for this for a while....

 

[ ](https://postimages.org/)

 

 

 

 

 

The next few days passed in a pleasant blur. Sansa wasn’t well enough to leave bed and Petyr, after a much-needed bath and shave, saw to her every comfort. He finally wore the sling that Mrs. Ames threatened to hang him with if he refused again. Sansa hid her smile at the elderly woman standing her ground against the master of the house.

Petyr was stubborn as a mule at times. She caught him on numerous occasions cradling his injured arm when he didn’t think anyone was watching. Sansa knew he hurt himself saving her, that it took the three of them to pull her to safety. Any one of them could have fallen to their deaths helping her, and that guilt was consuming.

Sansa should have just spoken to Petyr rather than let Myranda get the better of her. Petyr did say the other day, when she awoke, that he did not and had never loved Myranda. Perhaps much of what Sansa saw was one-sided. It was Myranda that initiated kisses him, not the other way around. Sansa didn’t know what happened in his bedroom, she only assumed by what the girl had told her. However, that night in the music room – Sansa did not imagine that. Even if Petyr was truthful about not loving her, it certainly didn’t stop him from taking his pleasure that night. That meant he was at least attracted to her. She also didn’t imagine the way he called out for Myranda in the library.

For the last few nights, Petyr slept with Sansa in her bed at her request. He would mold himself behind her or Sansa would snuggle into his chest. They always awoke holding each other in some way. At was as if Petyr was afraid to let her go.

Mrs. Ames forbade Sansa to speak to heal her throat as Petyr made sure she drank cups and cups of a pungent tea the old woman made daily. Sansa used the remedy to stay silent. She didn’t know why, but she wasn’t ready to talk to him just yet.

That once comfortable silence had returned and Sansa was grateful for it. Petyr read to her most afternoons, and by the way he looked at her sometimes, she felt he was avoiding what would soon need to be said between them.

William would bring up both of their suppers and Petyr would talk about his plans for the Riverlands. When spring came, they would travel to the Eyrie and visit Robert. The young duke’s affection for his uncle was honest and genuine and Sansa felt Lord Royce would have a difficult time turning the boy against Petyr.

Duncan’s disappearance had Sansa writing down what had happened in the labyrinth. Petyr’s face was furious when he read that the butler knew where she was and had left her to die. It wasn’t just Duncan’s sympathy for Myranda and the marchioness to wanted, but pure hatred for Sansa.

She tried to explain how poorly he spoke to her and Mrs. Ames while the master of the house was away. Petyr was calm and more controlled than Sansa expected. It wasn’t until he spoke, that the ice in his voice could have frozen God’s Eye lake. He would find wherever Duncan had run off to make him pay for his treachery. Sansa was taken back by that cold fury and wondered who else had crossed Petyr and did not live to tell the tale.

The ammunition and weapons her husband was hiding in the labyrinth left Sansa with unease. The meeting men of the gentry here and while in Kings Landing were kept private. Some would go with a wagon of crates and Sansa couldn’t help but think Petyr was arming these men. For what purpose, evaded her.

The Lannisters gave him everything. Power, title, lands… a wife of good family name – that is until Sansa came along. Petyr was already wealthy in his own right, and whatever he was planning was big. Why would he go against the ton and the king that gave him so much? Sansa wasn’t sure if she wanted to divulge what she discovered in the maze.

 _Trust – and treason_.

If by chance, Petyr was lying to her still, that was a card she could keep tucked away for a rainy day. He didn’t seem concerned, nor did he ask if she saw anything she shouldn’t have. Petyr didn’t trust Sansa with the knowledge of what he was doing – at least not yet.

To be fair, Sansa didn’t tell him about the spirits and other things that plagued her. Petyr did agree to tell her the truth. He seemed to be waiting for her rather than confess his deepest secrets. If whatever he was concocting went south, she would be implicated just by marriage – and even worse as the daughter of a condemned traitor to the crown.

It was Petyr’s gentle side he displayed to her these past few days. It would be so easy to forget the kind of man his reputation bore him. Somewhere along the time, she fell in love with Petyr. He was not the man her father would approve of and nothing she ever expected. Petyr was not her storybook prince in shining armor, saving her from the fiery dragon.

Today Sansa was restless and wanted out of this room. It was driving her mad. She begged Petyr to take her downstairs to the music room or the library. He acquiesced, wanting to please her and despite his arm still hurting, he carried her downstairs and settled her on the chaise lounge in the music room. It was still snowing, but gratefully the place was warm not only from the fire but the heat rising from below. Sansa smiled at that little deception. She was so angry with him about that. Strangely it seemed so long ago.

Wrapped in a warm blanket, Sansa lay her head back and listened to him play on the piano. He didn’t care who heard him now. It was fascinating to watch him on that instrument. He never played written compositions. Petyr would tinker with a little tune and then turn it into something beautiful. He was quite gifted as he often played songs only he could hear in his mind.

It was nothing like the music that was popular. Petyr’s playing was raw emotion. Whatever he was feeling echoed from the ebony and ivory keys. Some songs were so lovely that Sansa asked if he would consider writing them down. She wanted something that was purely him, something she could hold onto. Undoubtedly, during the winter, as they would be bound here until spring, it would give him something to do. Perhaps a pleasant task they could do together.

Petyr insisted the music came to him and that it had no rhyme or reason. It was whatever flowed from his fingers at the moment. Whatever it was, it was pleasing to the ear and Sansa could listen to him for hours on end if he was willing.

After dinner, he didn’t take his usual chair in front of the fire in the library. Instead, Petyr reclined back on the large sofa and let Sansa lay against him. This was the part she started falling in love with, this simple and sweet way he was with her. She remembered the poem he read to her, and oddly, everything felt as it should be. Sansa liked his sardonic side as well, for she could be just as stubborn and willful as him. Sometimes arguing with him for the sake of arguing felt good. They both liked to test the waters on how much they could get away with.

Over a year ago, when she first met Petyr at the Eyrie, Sansa never would have imagined she would be here, his wife – and for the longest time, now having a sense of contentment.

 _Almost_.

Sansa did not want to break the pleasantry with talk of things that needed to be discussed. It was as if everything had reverted to what they were before Myranda, Joffrey, and Kings Landing. For the first time, since their hasty marriage, did she finally liken to the idea of being his wife. Now, she knew too much. It couldn’t be ignored no matter how lovely their time here was.

Petyr was almost twice her age, but now the idea didn’t bother her so. Sansa knew he had many women and that thought, even though it was common among men, made her insides squirm. Did he love any of them? Would he compare Sansa in the marriage bed to those before her?

That night, Petyr returned from his room changed for bed. Sansa did not ask him to stay this time, but he seemed to read her mind all the same. Extinguishing the candles, Lady was already fast asleep in front of the fire. The flames danced low on the walls when he climbed in under the covers as Sansa made room for him. Pulling her to him, she curled into Petyr and nestled her head on his chest. She liked lying with him this way. He smelt of sandalwood and would trace little patterns on her back until falling asleep.

“Petyr, are you asleep?” she asked softly.

She felt him chuckle slightly.

“Not quite.”

Sansa toyed with a button on his nightshirt and could feel his breathing change. How should she ask him? Did she really want to know?

“What is it?” he asked the question that played in her mind.

Hesitating, Sansa tried to find the right words.

“You said – that you never loved her,” she began. “But – erm, did you like, I mean, did you enjoy… you were attracted to her, weren’t you?”

Petyr’s hand paused for a moment before resuming the delicate movement.

“Myranda wasn’t ugly,” Petyr said truthfully. “Most men could do worse, I suppose.”

Sansa didn’t know which one of them was dodging the question.

“She had quite the reputation in the Vale. Did you know that before agreeing to marry her?”

“I knew what she was,” he answered. “It was no secret. I doubt Royce would have made the contract if she had been pure – not to mention my money. I wasn’t marrying her for love and devotion.”

“Then why?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“Business, sweetling, nothing more,” he replied easily. A little _too_ easily. “No woman of title and reputation would marry me no matter how wealthy I was. It would have given me a name and kept my connections in the Vale.”

“And I ruined that, is what you’re saying?” she started to pull away but Petyr's arm wrapped around her preventing it.

“I welcomed it,” he breathed into her ear, holding Sansa close. “After you, I couldn’t bear the thought of marrying her. I’m glad Joffrey broke the engagement. I was thrilled, but when I saw how unhappy you were…”

“That because I thought you loved her,” she frowned, remembering everything clearly. “I saw you together in the music room the night they arrived here. If you didn’t want her, why did you – I saw you, and she was moaning in pleasure.”

It was quiet for a time, and Sansa felt sick. Maybe Petyr was lying after all, just to make her feel better.

“The music room?” his voice whispered with a questioning. “The only time I was with Myranda in the music room was the afternoon you made me play for everyone.”

“But I saw you both…”

Petyr snorted, “It was her footman.” The answer came abruptly as if it wasn’t a surprise to Petyr.

Sansa remembered the handsome young man with dark hair and heard Myranda’s voice. She didn’t want her father to know…

“You knew?” she leaned up to look him in the face.

“I knew,” he gazed back at her in the dim light.

“Why would you agree – I mean, if you knew she was with other men…” Sansa stumbled. “She said you were alright with knowing her past… that she loved you.”

Petyr tucked a strand of hair behind Sansa’s ear and smiled thinly.

“I wasn’t marrying her for her virtue,” he stated. “I certainly had no intention of bedding her with what I knew of her.”

“Even for an heir?” she wondered.

“I never would have known if it was mine or not. It’s one thing if a man doesn’t recognize his wife has taken lovers, it’s quite different knowing it beforehand. I never loved her, and no matter what she said to you, she never loved me. She was jealous of you, Sansa. I didn’t know she was coming here. I don’t think I hid my feelings for you well from her, and she made it clear she did not want you in Kings Landing.”

“You hid it from me well enough,” she frowned.

“I don’t recall you revealing anything to me, either, my love,” he smirked.

“I recall you calling out for her that night after the opera. You were drunk in the study and we…” Sansa averted his eyes. “You called out for _her_.”

“I was drunk, yes, but not a simpleton,” he turned her face back to him. “ _I knew it was you_. It was you I wanted – you, I wished could be my wife. The one I wanted to make love to.”

Sansa strained to remember that night clearly. Did she mishear him? They were rooted in passion, and she thought he said he _couldn’t wait_ to make her his wife. Sansa was positive; that’s what she heard. She had a bit to drink that night too, she admitted. He couldn't have made her his wife until Joffrey made it so. She must have heard wrong.

“Then you pulled away with a look I’ll never forget,” he sighed. “Shame and regret… as if you hated me. Then when you said I forced you those times…”

“You didn’t,” Sansa tilted his chin up. “I said that because I was angry. You never forced me. I liked kissing you and the way you touched me – so much, I didn’t know what or how to feel about it. I knew your reputation. I didn’t want to become any man’s mistress. I hated that you might love her. I hate that you’ve known other women – that I was just another one of them.”

Petyr laid his head back and gazed at the ceiling.

“I won’t insult you by lying. It doesn’t make it any better if I say that I didn’t care about any of them. Men can disassociate sex from love. It was more a veneer than anything else. It gave me information, that is usually very hard to come by,” Petyr groaned, rubbing his face. “I’m not proud of it, but in my line of work, information is everything.”

Sansa rolled over and lay on her back with a scowl. At the very least he didn’t lie, she grumbled to herself. She did start this inquiry, didn’t she?

“So am I to assume, you’ll continue these methods in the future?” she huffed in annoyance. “No one will question it, being married to the likes of me.”

Petyr leaned over her and studied her face a long time. At first, she couldn’t meet his gaze, but when he didn’t move away, she finally faced him.

“ _Married to the likes of you?_ ” he repeated whimsically. “You were _forced_ to marry me. I was overjoyed to marry you. There is no woman I want but you. I’m not asking you to love me, Sansa, but I won’t lie,” he said breathlessly, “I don’t want there to be any man but me. I would kill any man that dares touch you.”

Her chest heaved as he moved in closer that she could smell the mint on his breath. It had to be more than lust. It just had to be. Despite his history, and everything her mother and father ever taught her, Sansa still wanted him. Could Petyr make her happy after all of this?

“I can wait for as long as you need,” he smiled sadly. “I know I’m not young and handsome. I’m not the kind of man that deserves a woman like you. I’m not terribly good at duels, so I’ll have to find a less than noble way to fight for your honor.” Petyr was trying to lighten the mood, but suddenly his face was serious, and his eyes filled with something that made her heart heavy. “I _want_ to make you happy. I’ll give you the world if that’s what it takes. If you let me love you, I promise you will never question my love or loyalty.”

Her lips were so close to his, they ached with anticipation. Could Sansa learn to trust him again? She wanted so much to believe him and wondered if it could be so simple. After all, neither of them planned on this. It just happened. She didn’t want him to marry Myranda, and now they were man and wife. He wanted Sansa the entire time while Myranda was a jealous liar. What Petyr was promising sounded too good to be true. Could she look beyond his past and see the man before her now?

“Will you be my wife?” he asked so softly, Sansa almost didn’t hear him.

She smiled at such a silly question, “I’m already am.”

“Are you? I never asked you what you wanted,” he breathed. “You were never given a choice. I’m giving it to you now.”

“Promise me,” she whispered after a time. “No more lies. I want to be your equal.”

Sansa watched his eyes and saw that he was, indeed hiding something. Petyr wasn’t quick enough for her not to see as she waited for his answer.

“I will tell you the truth,” he agreed again. “Just as I promised.”

“I know you have something going on in that head of yours,” she called his bluff but chose to give him more time to decide on what to do. Petyr was so close, that the heat of him was intoxicating. She couldn’t stop gazing at his lips.

“I’m not stupid. I won’t be that silly, idiot of a wife that knows nothing. Whatever it is, I want you to tell me… _soon_.”

Petyr grinned at that and brushed his lips barely against hers.

“I would be a fool to mistake you for silly or stupid, sweetling.”

He closed the distance and kissed her deeply. Her chest was still heavy from illness, that when she gasped for air, Petyr’s tongue dipped inside touching hers. This time he was gentle. When he teased her down in the hot spring, he was anything _but_ tender. Right now, he was asking permission when suddenly Sansa answered him by kissing him back.

Petyr chuckled deeply into her mouth, “Is that a yes?”

Sansa purred a little and arched against him, making Petyr groan. She had waited so long that she didn't want to ruin the moment with any more words.

“Mmmm, I think I need to be persuaded,” she teased lightly.

Petyr smiled, and tenderly moved on top of her, making a home between her legs.

“Persuasion?” he kissed along her jawline. “My specialty.”

He found that pulse point near the underside of her ear and Sansa felt herself melt. Petyr was careful not to put all of his weight on her, bracing his upper body on his forearms. That, however, didn’t stop the feeling of his growing desire pressing between her legs. Sansa remembered how close she let him come to taking her maidenhead that night. She didn’t want to be his whore, but she desired him all the same.

They were man and wife tonight, and she wanted to feel him this time. As he suckled her neck and one hand found her breast, Sansa slowly snaked her hand down between them. When she touched him, Petyr tore his mouth away with a gasp.

His eyes were filled with astonishment and lust. Sansa gripped him through the soft muslin of his nightshirt and watched in fascination at the changes on his face. He was solid in her hand. Watching the strained pleasure in his expression as she slowly moved her hand, was mesmerizing. Sansa had complete control over him right now, and it gave her an unexpected sense of power. His hips jerked when he suddenly stilled her hand.

“Was that not right?” she asked nervously.

“It was lovely, but this is better,” he smirked and took her hand, placing it under the shirt until she found him again.

His cock was hard, and the skin silky to the touch. He guided Sansa’s hand slowly until she found a rhythm. The skin moved with her palm, sliding up and down his length. Petyr returned to kissing her as his hands traveled down and gathered her nightdress until it was up to her waist.

Her core was pulsing as she caressed him. Sansa liked this, like touching him, arousing him. Something moist coated her hand as she moved over the full length of him. He had grown bigger and harder, and she knew what it meant. He was ready for her.

Petyr’s hands ghosted down her waist and hips, pushing her thighs apart even further. When his fingers slid between her wet folds, Sansa involuntarily gripped his cock hard, making him hiss. Abandoning Sansa’s neck, he devoured her mouth while those sinful fingers worked hard to make her as aroused as he was.

Kissing him back furiously, Petyr pulled away just long enough to tug his nightshirt over his head and toss it aside. For a man almost twenty years her senior, his body told a different story. His skin was soft and unblemished. There wasn’t an ounce of extra padding on his frame anywhere. Petyr was lean with just a little hair on his chest.

She didn’t have time to think for he was already yanking up her nightdress until she was finally bare before him. Unconsciously, Sansa covered her breasts from nerves. She had never been naked before a man until now. Gently, he pulled her hands away, allowing himself to take her in.

“You’re beautiful,” he said reverently.

Lowering himself to cover her, the feeling was intoxicating - his skin on hers with no barriers. Sansa felt his muscles move, the slight tickle of his chest hair and how their sexes pressed against each other. He was nestled between her legs as Sansa was throbbing. When his mouth descended upon a breast, she moaned loudly as her hips instinctively arched to meet his.

Petyr’s hand returned to between her thighs, finding the swollen most part of her. His mouth matched the movement of his hand, and it felt like they were one in the same. His tongue circled and sucked a nipple, and when his finger found its way inside, she couldn’t help thrusting against his hand. Another finger joined, and he was pumping slowly as if gauging everything her body told him.

She was sopping wet and could hear the noises his fingers made as they picked up the tempo. Slightly embarrassed, Sansa closed her eyes and let him take over. That ache was building while her hips rose to meet his ministrations. Feeling a cool, dampness on her breast, Sansa opened her eyes to see he had moved down. He dipped his tongue along her navel while his eyes never left hers. Petyr’s pupils had darkened to where she couldn’t see the green anymore.

Her body stiffened when he draped her leg over his shoulder and was a breath away from her most secret place. Petyr’s words whirled back in a flash.

_Ever have a man feast on your cunt, sweetling? Feel his tongue dip inside you…_

The image of Petyr splaying her on the edge of the pool came to mind. He wanted to do it that night in that secret hideaway below the house. Seeing his face between her legs now had Sansa aching to the point of pain. His breath was hot against her sex and it made her tremble, whether in fear or anticipation, Sansa wasn’t sure. Never had she imagined a man wanted to put his mouth to a woman down there.

Petyr didn't break his gaze when his mouth descended and tasted the inside of her thigh. He was so close but hadn’t touched her there yet. Anchoring her knee to his shoulder and pushing the other wider, he lowered his mouth to where she was dying to be touched.

The first swipe of his tongue made Sansa shudder. He was slow in discovering what made her purr, growl and even jolt her hips up. The sensation was maddening and erotic that his mouth was doing this to her. Before she knew it, Sansa’s hips moved against his roaming tongue, begging for more.

Petyr’s nose was buried in her curls when she felt him sucking her fiercely. Sansa couldn’t control the intensity as she watched him utterly engrossed in his task. Petyr’s hand left her thigh returning his fingers inside her working feverishly. Sansa could feel her body tense and knew she was close. He was going to take her over the edge and very quickly. Her eyes squeezed shut as her fingers unconsciously gripped his hair.

“Open your eyes,” Petyr commanded softly while she whimpered. The eye contact as she crested that peak was overwhelming and her body shook.

He was in awe of her. Petyr’s eyes were full of raw desire and, dare she say it – love? She felt his hand, already slick with her juices, coat himself as he moved back up her body. This was it, there was no turning back, no shameful fears. Petyr guided himself to where he needed to be and waited for a moment, giving her a chance to stop him.

Her heart was beating wildly from excitement and a touch of fear. It was going hurt, they told her. Petyr sensed her apprehension and began kissing her again. His mouth tasted strange and then Sansa realized he tasted of _her_. The idea was so far out of the realm of decorum, that it was positively sinful.

She could feel him at her entrance as he gently prodded and coaxed her to relax. The way he rocked against her was making that blissful ache return even though she just came down once already.

“Breathe,” he instructed. “Let me in.”

Petyr lifted her hips, angling them up and began to press himself inside slowly. Sansa didn’t know what to expect. She thought the man would just plunge ahead, but Petyr was controlled and tender. It felt like he was stretching her open yet it wasn’t the terrible pain she feared. He would ease in and out before going deeper. A few winces of pain, and it was done. Sansa was a maiden no more. It was a strange sensation of fullness. Here, they were joined, and Sansa didn’t know where he ended and she began.

“Does it still hurt?” Petyr asked, kissing her around her ear.

“Not so much,” she breathed and let her hands caress his lower back.

It must have been the sign Petyr needed, for he started to withdraw and then slowly return. This steady push and pull was like how her hand was on him moments ago. Her walls gripped him in the most pleasant way that kept him inside her. Petyr was already moaning and Sansa loved the sound coming from him. She made him groan for her and it was arousing.

Petyr was back to kissing her and with the sensation of him moving inside her, before long she whimpered in his mouth again. He thrust deep making her gasp loudly, and they both looked at each other with a building hunger. It hurt a little but felt good at the same time. Petyr tested the waters and changed the tempo. It was a bit faster and deeper, and Sansa was at a loss for words.

She had no idea it would feel like this. Petyr reared up on his knees,  pulling her legs to wrap around his waist and the new angle made her lightheaded and fuzzy. Sansa didn’t know when she started mewing like some wanton. He moved faster and with her hips tilted up, and every time he thrust, a spark fired. He was panting in concentration and Sansa was fascinated seeing him slowly lose control. He was lost in her. It felt so good, but it wasn’t enough. Sansa needed more to crest that delicious peak again. It was just there on the horizon and yet she felt like she was never going to get there.

Leaning up, Sansa boldly devoured his neck when he paused in shock. Petyr gazed at her with wide eyes for half a breath and then ravaged her mouth without another thought. It was no longer slow and gentle lovemaking. He was thrusting hard and fast now and Sansa couldn’t catch her breath. He was growling her name and it was erotic.

That burning and throbbing from before spiked and the chase was on. Sansa was begging him now. That’s how badly she needed to feel that release again. Her body, running on instinct, was telling her what to do. She met his hips when Petyr took her hand and placed it where they were joined. She knew what he was silently telling her.

Mimicking his ministrations, she furiously rubbed that bit he called her rosebud and every time it pressed against him, it sent a jolt through her. Petyr’s brows were furrowed and she could tell he was rapidly losing control. His thrusts became more erratic as he plundered her deeper, his hips grinding harder into her own. It drove Sansa mad with excitement and couldn’t believe the words passing her lips.

_Harder, faster…more._

That dam was about to burst as she called out his name and begged him not to stop. Stop, he didn’t. Her cries only spurred him on and before long, he was groaning for her too. Suddenly, she felt it, it was coming. Between her own fingers and Petyr inside her, Sansa almost willed it not to happen yet. She loved hearing her name on his lips, the way he growled for her. He was coming undone and it was all because of her. Wrapping herself around him tightly, one wave after another crashed down and she shook beneath him as he lost himself inside her.

Sansa’s head was spinning, but it wasn’t just from the pleasure he gave. They were both hot and sweaty, and she thought vaguely, the exertion might have been too much. Sansa didn’t realize how much energy went into such things. Stupidly, she felt the woman probably laid there as the man did all the work. Did that make Sansa a wanton because she acted on her own desires?

She could feel him inside her still and a musky scent filled the air of the room, making it thick and heavy. Petyr kissed her gently and when she didn’t respond, a worried look crossed his face.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked tucking sweaty strands of hair behind her ear.

Sansa shook her head, but it made the spinning even worse. Petyr caressed her forehead and frowned.

“It was too soon,” he cursed himself. “You’re not well enough. I’m sorry. I should have known better.”

Petyr rolled off her onto his side and pulled the bedclothes over her. She could feel his seed leaving her as a pool of sticky wetness between her thighs grew. He sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, and Sansa admired his lean form. Without a word, he walked across the room, entirely bare to the basin of fresh water.

Pouring a glass, he returned and handed it to her. Sansa couldn’t help but blush. After what they just did, seeing him walking around naked was still awkward for her. Petyr was not ashamed and utterly comfortable with his body as he sat down.

“If Mrs. Ames finds you ill tomorrow, there will be hell to pay,” he chuckled while Sansa smiled as she finished off the cold water. “I’d rather not have my morning tea poisoned.”

“I’m fine, really,” she blushed. “I didn’t think it would be like… _that_.”

Petyr slid into bed beside her and adjusted the pillows laughing softly.

“I’m not quite sure if that is a compliment or not.”

Sansa snuggled down and lay on her side, facing him.

“No, no. I liked it. Very much,” Sansa admitted, her cheeks burning red. “Is it always so… messy – and noisy?”

Petyr rolled onto his back and barked in laughter. Sansa wondered if she should be offended, but when Petyr pulled her into his arms, she knew he wasn’t mocking her. Sansa blushed again at her naïve words.

“Only when it’s good, sweetling,” he chuckled. “Oh, my little witch… the things I will happily teach you.”

Sansa glanced up at him in surprise.

“There’s more?”

Petyr kissed her forehead and held her tightly against him.

“So much more,” he breathed. “This is what our bodies were made for my love.”

This had felt so good tonight; Sansa couldn’t imagine it being better or vastly different. How many ways were there to make love? Her mother said it could be pleasurable if her husband were considerate enough, but Sansa thought the act itself was mainly to produce children. That thought stilled her. It was entirely possible she could be with child after tonight.

“Petyr?”

“Hmph?” he answered tiredly caressing her back once again.

“Do you want children?” she wondered.

“Do you?” he asked after a few moments.

Sansa thought on it and smiled. She could imagine having his children, yes. She would love a little girl.

“Yes,” she finally answered him.

“Good,” she felt him grin and held her tighter. “By the numbers, I wager, we’ll have a small army of children because I plan on bedding as much as you’ll let me.”

After several minutes, she could tell Petyr was falling asleep for his breathing evened out, and for some reason, her old insecurities came bubbling up along with a prediction Mrs. Ames made months ago. She said Sansa would have only two children. Did that mean she couldn’t have anymore? What kind of life would they have? Sansa was still a traitor to be shunned. Would they...

“Will they be ashamed of me?”

“What?” he tilted her head to look up at him.

_Did she really that out loud?_

“Myranda said, that you wouldn’t be received anywhere because of me,” she muttered. “That any children I gave you would be reviled. You would be better off with bastards.”

Petyr frowned deeply, “If I see that woman again, she will rue the day she met me.”

Catching Sansa worried look, he smiled sincerely and kissed her tenderly. “Our children will have nothing to worry about. They will lead charmed lives. They will love and be proud of their mother. Have no fears. Never again will you ever have to worry about what any of those pompous cows have to say about you, I or our family. Things will change for the better, Sansa. I promise you. I will never let anyone hurt you ever again.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more fluff and smut tonight :D Hints/clues are dropped here and there in chapters that mean something later on. I hope I'm building this well when things .... start to happen.

 

 

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A fortnight had passed and Sansa was becoming stronger every day. Sarah helped her walk around the bedroom, gaining more strength each time. Before long, with a steady arm to hold on to, Sansa was using the stairs and able to move about the house again. As lovely as her room was, she was growing anxious to find a regular routine.

Petyr had travelled to town a few times, and it seemed that everything, whatever it was, had returned to business as usual. Even now, she wasn’t ready to discuss what she found in the labyrinth. It just didn’t feel like the right time. Petyr was still fussing over her since that day as if she were a porcelain doll that might break and Sansa knew his mind was occupied with other things.

Duncan had last been seen in town not long after Sansa’s accident, and she knew Petyr was on the hunt for the man. With the men Petyr undoubtedly had at his disposal, Sansa wondered how long it would take to find the majordomo, or what Petyr would do to him. He was furious about Myranda as well, but Sansa had to admit the woman was in for a shock upon her arrival at Winterfell.

She most likely had no clue what kind of people the Boltons were. It hadn’t really surprised Sansa when Roose betrayed her family, for Father never liked nor trusted the man and Petyr told her that his son was even worse. Perhaps Myranda would fit right in since she was a cruel and vicious thing.

Sansa tried to put that day behind her and never told Petyr or Mrs. Ames about her little faerie that whispered in her ear about leaving this world behind. After Petyr saved her, when the spirit told her he wouldn’t come, Sansa did as the old housekeeper advised long ago. She ignored it. It never happened.

For the first time since meeting the spirit, it had lied to Sansa. Petyr _did_ come. Sansa wasn’t leaving him no matter if there was a beautiful, immortal world awaiting for her. Petyr loved her now, and that’s all the mattered to her. She belonged somewhere, finally, and someone loved her. They could be happy here in the country away from those hateful eyes. Sansa never wanted to go to the capital again as long as she lived. Even the Vale wouldn’t be as bad with Aunt Lysa gone. It was a terrible thing to think Robert was probably better off without his controlling mother.

All the questions Sansa had could wait just a little longer, for she was enjoying all of Petyr’s tender affections. He slept every night in her bed, and sometimes he would kiss and caress her, but they didn’t make love again. Petyr said he wanted her to be healthy and not over-exert herself. There would be plenty of time for such pleasures, he told her.

Sansa felt a bit wanton as she craved to feel that desire again so soon. How did a wife tell her husband she wanted him every night? He was worried she would fall ill again or that he might hurt her, and it was frustrating. Petyr’s heart was in the right place and Sansa let him take the lead. He knew what was best, didn’t he? Maybe that was why she avoided questioning him or perhaps she really did not want to know. Everything between them was bliss now.

Petyr dutifully took Lady outside as Sansa watched them from her window every day. Petyr never said so, but he adored that wolf. Often, when he thought no one was looking, he would play with her briefly. It was as if he were a boy again as Sansa watched Petyr with Lady, warming her heart.

He wanted children, and Sansa could see the father he would become. Mrs. Ames was right, there was a good man in him, just waiting to come out again. Sansa frowned a bit and couldn’t help but wonder what made Petyr this way. It was if a battle waged on inside him. The man he was and the man he so desperately desired to be.

Tired of staying indoors, Sansa donned her cloak and gloves and decided to join them. If she asked him, Petyr would have denied her, knowing he would worry about her health. She would not give him the opportunity to say no today. The sky was blue and sunny, and Sansa had to be outside, if only for a few minutes.

She found them behind the house just below their bedroom windows while Sansa waited for a moment and watched. Lady had grown so big that when she playfully pounced on him, she knocked Petyr down in the snow and flat on his back. Sansa laughed and caught his attention as Lady ran to her excitedly. He dusted the snow off him and gave her a mocking glare.

“You know you shouldn’t be out here, sweetling,” he teased.

She expected him to admonish her for disobeying his wishes for her well-being, but in the end, he only smiled.

“Hard to believe she could fit inside your cloak the day we found her,” Petyr japed, walking to her and Lady. Sansa’s tummy fluttered. Petyr said ‘ _we’_ all the time now.

“Hard to believe you let me keep her,” Sansa smiled brilliantly at her adoring husband and giggled. “You’re covered in snow.”

Sometimes she didn’t know which man she married. The one that was full of plots and secrets or the one that loved art, music and was playing with a wolf in the middle of winter. Sansa started dusting him off when he took her hands and pulled her close. She would never tire of the way Petyr looked at her with such adoration. His lips were cold yet his mouth was warm and inviting. Her arms wound around his neck, returning his kiss. Breathless, he pulled away and gazed lovingly at her.

“I was thinking,” he grinned, caressing her cheek.

“Plotting more treason are you?” she teased. Petyr’s eyes narrowed for a second before smiling again.

“Not today.”

Sansa decided this wasn’t the time to tease him about that. He was in a good mood and didn’t want to spoil it. “What’s going on in that mind of yours?”

“Well, I’m not a religious man as you’ve probably guessed, but I wanted your opinion, my wife,” Petyr took her arm and walked near the terrace. “The house needs some vivacity, considering how dreary winter can be…  and the passing of recent events. Do you wish to celebrate Christmas? I’m sure a suitable tree could be found, perhaps a lovely dinner… gifts.”

Sansa stopped and turned to look at him. Was he serious? It was hard to tell with Petyr sometimes. Out of all the things he could have said, this ultimately left her confounded. He raised an eyebrow at her scrutiny with a smirk.

“Christmas?” she blinked a few times.

The gears turned in his mind, before answering. “Oh, I forget myself, did your family celebrate the solstice instead?”

Was it Christmas already? How time flew by. Her birthday was in February. It seemed so far away when she first arrived here. In that time, so much had happened and now he was discussing the holiday as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Northerners still celebrated the winter solstice as they had for ages. The people hadn’t completely forsaken the old ways for the new religion, and Petyr knew it. Mother made sure that Christmas was properly observed in Winterfell. Petyr was right, Sansa did not take him for a religious man at all, but he was thinking of her.

“If not, that’s fine as well,” he shrugged his shoulders after Sansa remained silent, “I rather thought…”

“It would be lovely,” she beamed and took his gloved hands. Sansa knew it wouldn’t be like the ones her family celebrated – holiday balls, dinners with other lords and ladies of the ton. No, it would be just them and a house full of loyal servants, but it gave Sansa a splendid idea if Petyr permitted it.

“Perhaps by spring, we can curry favor with the locals again. Next year, we’ll have the Riverlands so bountiful, no one will care what the king says about us,” he grinned, retaking her arm. “Tell me, my love, what do we need to spruce up the house a bit and make it more festive?”

The next few days, Sansa did precisely that. Men found a tree that she wasn’t so sure would fit inside the doors. Once propped up, it reached to the second story in the grand foyer. Petyr took her to town and let her buy whatever she desired. She had filled the sleigh, and he never questioned her, not once. They received a few odd stares from the local gentry, but Sansa refused to let it bother her. Nothing was going to ruin this day. She walked proudly on Petyr’s arm and killed them with kindness instead.

When Sansa, Mrs. Ames, and the women decorated the house and the tree, the mood changed drastically. There was happiness in Harrenhal again, just as Mrs. Ames had once hoped for. The atmosphere became relaxed as it felt more like a family than master and servant. Petyr didn’t mind her suggestion, or at least he said nothing to Sansa and let her do as she pleased.

She bought gifts for every single person at Harrenhal. Just as Petyr told her when he bought her whatever she wanted; she wasn’t buying them or their loyalty – it was appreciation. Myranda would have never been generous to her servants and small folk. Lysa was a horrible duchess, and no one liked working for her. Sansa didn’t want that. She tried to take care of the people that took care of her.

It was the eve before Christmas and Sansa was giddy as a child. Tomorrow, the dining hall would be used for the first time, and it wasn’t for distinguished guests or royalty. Tomorrow, every servant would dine with them at Sansa’s request. Petyr agreed, but she wasn’t sure if it was because he thought it was a good idea or he just wanted her happy. He tried to hide it, but there was a glint in his eyes, a soft appraisal that needed no words. Petyr came from nothing, and to now see his wife, a grand lady, treat her smallfolk with such kindness and respect seemed to touch him. He was a powerful and wealthy man now, but he did not forget where he came from. What Sansa noticed since coming to Harrenhal, Petyr was apt to do more business with the common folk than that of the peerage. She never saw any noblemen other than local gentry and she wondered, again, what he was up to. Was it just standard business or did he have other dealings in which involved arming the locals? They were the ones he seemed to be interested in gaining loyalty and favour. He was still the new lord of this county after all.

Sansa put it out of her mind for now. Tomorrow was Christmas and she was going to enjoy it to the fullest. It was depressing last year in Riverrun, and before that, Sansa might as well not even come down from her room at the Eyrie. Lysa spoiled Robert with gifts and sweets and Sansa just wished she could have stayed in bed for no one would have noticed. There was no joy in it and yet in the past few days, this house suddenly came alive. The servants were happy, Petyr was delighted, and Sansa felt a sense of satisfaction in it all. The only thing that would make it even better was children. Sansa stared at the tree and smiled, thinking about their future.

_Soon._

She could see her little ones opening gifts with glee and laughter. Sansa imagined Petyr would most likely spoil them to hell and back. He overindulged her now as it was. She could only imagine what he’d be like with children of his own. Petyr would be a wonderful father. She just knew it in her heart, he would. Somehow his past didn’t seem to matter much anymore.

Would he want a son or a daughter? Sansa wanted a little girl so bad, she was ready to start making tiny dresses, and she wasn’t even with child yet. She wanted someone to call her very own. Petyr loved her, she had no doubts, but it was different. Sansa wanted a family – something that belonged to her. She was tired of being alone and missed having a family. If she were able, she would bear as many children as possible.

 

* * *

 

 

Petyr had been strangely silent today, and after dinner, they retreated to their room instead of the library. He read to her quietly stretched out on the chaise lounge in the firelight and Sansa loved the sound of his voice. Like the poem from months ago, his words painted a vision in her head. She couldn’t imagine him being like this with any woman but her. In fact, she wanted him to forget he was ever with any woman before her.

Sansa turned slightly from resting against his chest and fingered the sash on his dressing robe. He didn’t miss one syllable when she moved it open and let her hand explore his abdomen. Slowly, she found him where her leg was draped over his. Petyr’s breath hitched and lowered his book. Blue met green as she touched him, feeling his chest rise and fall under her own. Sansa took the book from his hand, placing it on the floor. The only thing she wanted to hear him say was her name over and over.

Pushing herself up, she leaned over him and examined his face. The firelight danced in his eyes as he watched her with anticipation. Sansa kissed him softly, taking her time. She was a bit nervous and still not well the night he first made love to her. Sansa wanted him but didn’t know what to do or what to expect. She wanted him every night since then, and tonight she wasn’t going to let him sleep. Sansa wasn’t ill anymore. She didn’t want him to handle her with knit gloves. She yearned to break if it meant feeling that bliss again.

Peppering kisses along his jaw, Petyr hummed a bit in satisfaction. Sansa felt his pulse as it raced under her tongue. Her mouth suckled that point until she felt his hands lift her hips to straddle him on the lounge. Her own dressing gown was in the way and quickly shrugged it off, tossing it on the rug. Slowly, she unbuttoned his nightshirt while he watched her in fascination on top of him. Sansa smiled and lowered her mouth to his skin. She could feel him stir between her legs, making her smile.

She opened his shirt more, exposing his chest to her wandering mouth. His hips bucked slightly when her tongue dared touch his nipple. So that felt good to him as well. Sansa tucked that bit of information away as Petyr allowed her to discover him.

That first night, she really didn’t get to see him. Sansa felt him, though, and it was arousing. She pulled away to look at Petyr, practically panting. His eyes darkened as his hand kneaded her hips. He wanted this as much as she did, but he didn’t take over. He let her take the lead.

Glancing down, she saw a few minor scars at the base of his neck. Sansa had never noticed them before. She couldn't tell if they were cuts or deep scratches. Mrs. Cole said he duelled for her mother when he was a boy.

“How did you come by this?” Sansa asked, tracing the glossy marks until he flinched a bit.

“I was a stupid boy.”

Sansa waited for more, but Petyr didn't elaborate.

“Does it still give you pain?” she asked when he moved her inquisitive hand away.

Petyr’s eyes never left her face and didn’t stop his hands from feeling her backside, ever so firmly pressing her against his hardness.

“Not in the way you would think,” he replied and Sansa wasn’t sure what he meant. He clearly did not want to discuss it.

She leaned down and kissed the scars, feeling him gasp slightly at the tenderness. She kissed back up his collarbone and neck until finding his mouth once more. Sansa loved kissing him. A  hand drifted up, cradling the back of her neck, while the other pressed their hips together in a rocking motion. Petyr sat up, taking her with him, moving to put his feet on the floor – all without breaking their kisses. She was still straddling him when he lowered his head to the swell of her bosom.

“I want to see you,” she moaned, loving his mouth on her breasts. Petyr looked up at her with a wicked smile.

Lifting her up to stand, Petyr shrugged off his dressing robe and pulled the nightshirt over his head, letting it fall between them on the floor. The fire lit up his pale skin as he stood there and let her examine him. His shoulders were broad and tapered to a small waist. Her eyes followed her hands as they explored. His stomach flinched a bit, and Sansa wondered if her fingertips tickled him.

Lowering her eyes, she gazed at that part of him she witnessed from a distance in the lagoon. She took him in her hand and stroked that silky skin. Petyr’s breathing changed, but he didn’t move and just let her take her time. It was probably good she didn’t see it that night, it would have scared her. He was hard and heavy as that member jutted out from arousal. It didn’t look that big when she spied on him at the lagoon.

Petyr stilled her hand with laboured breathing, “You’re not playing fair, my little witch.”

Without another word, he lifted her nightdress over her head and tossed it aside. It was different being naked beneath him on the bed. Standing here, she felt very exposed and nervous. Petyr’s eyes raked over every inch of her, making her burn as if he touched her. She tried to cover herself as she blushed a deep red, but Petyr kept pulling her arms down to her sides.

“Why do you hide? You’re the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmured in her ear. “Here, I want you to see what I see.”

Petyr took her over to the dressing mirror and stood behind her, holding her arms gently.

“Look. You’re so beautiful, Sansa. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, my love,” he breathed in her ear. “There is nothing sinful nor shameful in our bodies and sharing them with the one we love. Those religious zealots think it’s only to procreate and nothing more. Utter idiots.” he smiled in the mirror.

His hands cupped her breasts as he nibbled on her neck, not once did his eyes leave hers in the mirror. Sansa had looked at her reflection a million times, even naked and knew she was pretty but Petyr made her feel like the only beautiful woman in the world.

That sinful heat began to pool, seeing and feeling his touch at the same time. It felt scandalous to be naked and watching themselves like this. Sansa couldn’t take her eyes away when one of his hands drifted down until finding a home between her legs. Her chest heaved as she watched that hand massage her where she ached terribly.

“See how your body wants to be ravished?” he purred, sucking on her earlobe. “This what I love to behold – the way you respond to me, how your face changes with each sensation…” he pressed his fingers firmly below her curls, starting a fire. Sansa watched her face as her mouth panted and finally leaned back into his shoulder. “… hearing you call out my name.”

Sansa couldn’t watch anymore; it was too much. Never, even with Myranda’s dirty talk, did she think a man and woman liked to watch themselves like this. Turning slowly, Sansa found his mouth and winding her arms around him. Yes, this is what she wanted, when Petyr held her tight against him. He lifted her up, wrapping her long legs around his slender waist and carried her back to their bed.

Instead of laying her down, he sat, letting her straddle him. She could feel him hard against where she was moist and waiting. Petyr rocked her hips and kissed her thoroughly before finding that sweet spot on her neck. Her fingers sifted through his dark hair as that delicious mouth feasted, making her whimper.

Petyr shifted back, still holding her to him until they were in the middle of the bed. Pulling her with him, he laid down on his back. Sansa tried to roll over, but he wouldn’t let her, keeping her on top of him. His hands ran down her spine until massaging the soft flesh of her backside. It made her rub up and down the length of him in this position, and it was positively sinful. Petyr did say there were many ways to make love, but Sansa never thought of the woman being on top of a man. She really was too naïve. He was going to teach her, he said.

The moan that escaped his lips was music to her ears. Feeling a bit of bravery, she sat up and watched him beneath her. His eyes were heavy with desire, waiting to see what she would do. She could feel him and knew what they both wanted yet Petyr didn’t move to take her. His hands smoothed up her thighs until reaching her hips and gently started to rock her against him once more.

Petyr wanted Sansa to take him like this. She experimented a bit rubbing along the length of him as that alone felt good. Adding more pressure, Sansa made him moan loudly. He liked it as his pelvis rose to meet hers as she worked furiously against him. His grip on her hips, trying to raise her up made Sansa realize he wanted more. Not sure of how it should work, she leaned down and kissed him a little more roughly than she intended. The movement made her hips rise up and then could feel him prodding at her entrance.

Those hands were guiding her hips down, and Sansa understood now. She lowered herself little by little, sinking down on him. It didn’t hurt like the first time, but he was stretching her again. Maybe if they did this more often, that discomfort would go away. Petyr was gentle with her that night and eased himself inside her, however, this felt different. She was in control of how fast or slow, and it was a strange empowerment. Slowly, she rose up and down a few times, and it wasn’t simple as she thought. Bracing her hands on his chest and with him guiding her hips, she finally found a rhythm.

Oh, this was truly wicked, indeed. It was easier to lie there and let Petyr pleasure her, but this was everything a well brought up lady was never told about. Never would Sansa have ever realized that a woman could take her own satisfaction from a man. She was slowly fucking him and watching his every move, making her breathless.

Everything about it was pure sin - Petyr inside her, rutting against him, feeling his chest heave and the way he gazed at her. She may have felt embarrassed about watching herself in the mirror a moment ago but watching him under her was erotic.  Occasionally his eyes would close while his hands became more insistent, travelling from her hips, to touch her breasts as they bounced softly. Sansa liked this, she was in control of him, and she loved watching his expressions change. She was giving him pleasure as it spiked her own when she felt his knees bend. He bucked up hard as they both gasped.

Petyr’s eyes were pitch black, seemingly staring right into her soul. He pulled her head down for a searing kiss when those hips bucked again hard making her yelp into his mouth. It wasn’t pain, far from it, when his hands grabbed her hipbones and starting thrusting into her deeply. She could barely catch her breath. Sansa braced her arms just above him, and the action gave his mouth full access to her breasts. He was humming and grunting tasting that sensitive skin, but his hips never missed a beat.

“Oh, Petyr…” she moaned harshly, feeling their slick bodies move together as one.

It felt wonderful, but it wasn’t enough. Sansa needed more but didn’t know how to tell him. She leaned back just far enough to see his face. Petyr was utterly focused on where they were joined. He must have seen the frustration in her own eyes for he suddenly rolled them over and sat back on his haunches between her legs.

Those dark pools of emerald green burned every inch of her skin. Sansa had never felt so desired as the way Petyr looked at her right now. His breathing was shallow and his skin had a slight sheen in the firelight. His hand reached out and caressed her face, trailing down, lighting a fire down the center of her body until resting just above her sex.

Sansa couldn’t breathe as his thumb danced tantalizing circles around where she was aching for him. Her hips jerked, and suddenly she couldn’t stop the soft pleas to end this torture. She got to watch him writhe underneath her and now he wanted to watch her unravel by his touch. Her legs were spread wide before him, but his devilish eyes never left hers. She could feel him so very near where she wanted him to be and rocked her hips to touch him, telling him what she wanted.

Petyr smiled and grabbed her backside, yanking it up to meet him. She was still wet when he slid in to the hilt. Holding onto her thighs while still sitting up, he thrust roughly into her and Sansa’s eyes practically rolled back.

Teach her, he did. There was nothing romantic about this, it was pure lust, and it was driving her mad. The look in his eyes was her undoing. It was all about pleasure. She wanted Petyr to call out _her_ name tonight, yet Sansa couldn’t even form one coherent word as he fucked her senseless. Yes, this is what fucking was.

Sansa heard something like her voice begging him desperately. When his fingers rubbed where they were joined, she unconsciously thrust back at him and felt her back arch, crying out incoherent words. Dear God, it was even better than their first time together. Her body quaked when Petyr kissed her fiercely coming to his own release. He was pulsing inside her and finally heard her name fall from his lips.

Vaguely, Sansa wondered how soon until she would be with child. If they kept this up night after night, it wouldn’t be long. This time Petyr hadn’t moved and was still inside her, resting his head on her chest. His back was slick and hot as she trailed her fingertips down his spine. She could get used to this, she giggled inwardly.

Her mother and father would be mortified at how wanton their daughter had become. Perhaps they lied to her as well. Sansa had many siblings. Obviously, they liked this enough to have so many. Sansa wondered if this is how it was in most marriage beds or was she and Petyr just lucky?

“Am I crushing you?” his jagged voice inquired.

“I like it,” she mused, continuing her soft caress.

“Did you?” Sansa felt him smile.

Sansa blushed and was glad he couldn’t see it. “I think that was obvious. I probably woke the entire household.”

He chuckled deeply and leaned upon his forearms to gaze at her. “I’m fairly certain everyone knows we’re at it like rabbits in here by now. I haven't slept in my bed for weeks.”

Sansa slapped him, playfully, “You’re impossible. It’s bad enough the servants gossiping… what will our children think if they hear us every night?”

“They should be grateful that their mother loves fucking their father or they would never have been born?” he smirked and nibbled under her ear. "Plus, I feel their rooms should be in the other wing. They don't need to hear the nastier details of their parents daily debauchery. If you're not screaming, I'm not fucking you right. Come to think of it, we might want to christen a few rooms before little ones arrive. We'll most likely be regulated to our bedroom after that."

“Tell me again why I chose to marry you?” she sighed at his kisses. “One day, I may have to explain it to them.”

“You didn’t remember?” he murmured and pulled back with a somber look on his face. Why the change all of a sudden?

True, it was forced at the time. It was clear by now that they both unconsciously wanted it. Petyr did ask her the night they made love. Why was it bothering him now?

“If there had been no Myranda, no Joffrey, nothing to sway you… just you and me,” he began with a hint of anxiety was in his voice. “If I had asked you then, would you have said yes?”

Sansa stared at him for a moment. She could actually see that boy in him, here and now. She was already his wife, but somehow there was still the fear of rejection. That if fate had not worked its path, they would not be here together… in love. The act he put on for everyone else was just that, an act – a mask. This was the real man underneath, asking if she could have ever wanted him. Just him as a man.

“When you were sleeping in the music room and caught me sketching you that day,” she caressed his face. “The day I burned my dress… I think that’s when I fell in love with you.”

Sansa kissed him softly, searching his eyes. Yes, he loved her. She could tell. When he allowed it, Petyr’s eyes told her everything.

“I tried so hard not to love you,” she breathed. “Even now, I’m not sure why. I just know that I do. Fate brought us together for some reason, and I’m glad of it. I mean, I wish my family were still alive but if – and I wonder about this all the time – if everything had not happened the way it did. Would _we_ be here right now?”

Petyr sifted his fingers through her hair and smiled sadly. “You never would have given me a second glance, my love. Not to mention your father would have never allowed me to court you. Not in a million years. Would our paths have ever crossed? I don’t know. What I do know is that I love you and will do anything to make you happy.”

Petyr pulled out of her gently, and she rolled onto her side, facing him, snuggling into his chest.

“I cannot bring your family back, Sansa,” he sighed sadly, holding her to him. “If I could pluck away all your pain and sorrow, I would. If you want me to take revenge on those that hurt you, _I will_.”

“And if I only want you and a family of my own?” she tucked her head under his chin.

“You had me the moment I first danced with you on the terrace at the Eyrie,” he smiled. “Ah, I should have stolen you away that night. So many things I would have done differently.”

Sansa didn’t quite know what he meant by that.

“I would not have gone with you,” she spoke truthfully and thought about it seriously for a moment. Sansa had pondered it once before. She wouldn’t have chosen Petyr then. She wasn’t the same woman she was previously. “No, it had to happen this way. I believe that now. For better or for worse.”

Petyr stroked her side, and Sansa wondered what he was thinking right now. He was awfully quiet.

“I mean; I wasn’t the same person I am now. I’ve changed because of you,” she added softly and then huffed in annoyance. Sansa couldn’t find the right words. “I was just a stupid girl before I knew you.”

“You were never stupid, sweetling,” he crooned and continued his ministrations. “You are wiser beyond your years, even in your innocence. You would have been wise to stay far away from me.”

Sansa pulled away and studied him with furrowed brows. What did he mean? Did he regret this? Regret being with her?

Petyr smiled sadly, picking up her left hand and kissing it. He removed the makeshift wedding ring from her finger and suddenly moved off the bed walking to his bedroom, picking up his robe on the way.

Sansa panicked, grabbing her dressing gown from the floor and hastily putting it on. She marched into his room, ready to demand an explanation when he walked out of his dressing room holding a silver box.

“I was planning on giving you this tomorrow,” he hesitated with a half-smile, “but I thought now would be better.”

Sansa returned to her room since Petyr’s was too dark and fingered the delicate box. It was a jewel box. She glanced at him, and his face was unreadable as he waited patiently.

Opening the silver box, a large princess-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds shimmered in the candlelight. It was a beautiful ring, a proper wedding ring and Sansa was speechless. A simple gold band would not do – not for Petyr. Of course, he would give her something stunning. This was a ring befitting royalty, not some northern girl.

Petyr wasn’t trying to show off his wealth by purchasing such a thing, it told Sansa how much he really did care. Everything he gave her was paramount of he what could provide. Petyr wanted the best for her. Once as a young man, he probably wouldn’t have been able to afford such things for a lady of his choosing. Now, he desired to dote on her with everything he had.

Sansa took the ring out of the box, and it was heavier than she expected. His house colours were that of green and black. Onyx would have been a dreadful choice for a wedding ring, but the emerald suited ideally. It was a magnificent stone, rich in colour and expertly cut. The small diamonds made it sparkle, and Sansa felt giddy inside. She thought Myranda’s diamond was beautiful, but this was three times the size, and obviously, Petyr put more thought into it. The band had intricate scrollwork in the gold setting as she turned the ring over in her fingers.

“If it’s not to your liking…”

Petyr didn’t get to finish those words as she flung herself into him. Sansa felt the tears sting her eyes and willed herself not to cry. This ring meant so much. It wasn’t a poor substitute for a hasty marriage. She wondered when he commissioned it. All this time, Sansa thought his small pinky ring would forever symbolize their forced marriage, or that she wasn’t worth a proper ring befitting a true wife.

“This is what you should have had on our wedding day, my love,” he smiled, taking the ring and slipping on her finger. It was heavy, but Sansa didn’t care. She would never take it off.

Sansa was about the set the box aside when a glint of gold caught her eye. There was another ring in there – a man’s ring. Most married men in the ton did not wear wedding bands, only their wives. Inspecting it, his ring had the same scrollwork as her own. It was of old northern design and Sansa looked at him in surprise.

Wearing such a thing in public just wasn’t done. Neither of her or Petyr, had they not been practically exiled from society, could not have worn something considered so vulgar and blatantly treasonous. Petyr wanted her, and him, to have wedding rings that meant something to her. It touched Sansa’s heart to the core.

She took the ring and placed it on his finger, and this time the tears would not be contained. She loved him. She really did and didn’t care about the why’s or how’s. This tiny gesture alone was enough for Sansa to forgive him so many things. Petyr loved her truly. Sansa wished the world could just leave them be for the rest of their lives and let them live out their lives in peace with a few children along the way. It wasn’t so much to ask for, was it? Sansa didn’t care if they were blacklisted, shunned, or ignored. As long as she had him and a family… she could be blissfully happy.

“Merry Christmas, my little witch,” he smiled, holding her in his arms. “I am yours. Forever under your spell, heart, and soul – and you are mine.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

 


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big chapter. Just as the title suggests.... a few reveals, now things are going to get a bit tricky. There's still fluff and smut but the undercurrent is well in play.

 

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The new year came and went and Petyr felt a sense of renewal. It was almost as if he were living another man’s life. This was the dream he had as a boy – a vision of him and Cat and what their lives would be.

Here he was, the wealthy lord of a great house with his beautiful redhead by his side. Only it wasn’t Cat. Sansa, her lovely daughter, had fulfilled the image in his mind. Cat had been his dream but Sansa was the sublime reality and some days, Petyr didn’t know how to process it all. It still felt very foreign to him. Many nights, after making love to her, he would still be in awe that this heavenly creature was his.

Cat had been his ideal for so long, but Sansa smashed that the first time he kissed her. Petyr could see no woman but her. Sansa had to be his no matter the cost. Now, she was his wife and it was better than he could have ever expected.

_She loved him._

He had hoped that in time she could grow to love him. After finding her half-dead, Petyr was so worried he’d lost her. He would have ripped his heart out with his bare hands if he thought for a moment it would save her life. He fussed over Sansa and coddled her to the point that he wanted to put her in a glass case and keep her safe forever.

For some reason he couldn’t fathom, Sansa had forgiven him for things she really didn’t know he had done. Petyr knew she wanted answers from him but she didn’t pressure him. Sansa knew he was plotting something. Hell, he practically opened that door once she discovered his ghostly ruse. Myranda and Kings Landing was a welcome distraction but it wouldn’t be long before Petyr would have to tell his beloved many truths.

How would Sansa react to his grand plan? She hated Joffrey, the Lannisters, and what they had done to her and her family. She did not grieve the passing of Lysa, her only aunt and had not spoken of Edmure since his fateful letter. Sansa had accepted Petyr as her family and that, oddly, seemed enough for her. Even the idea of bearing his children, was a happy one. She could see a future with him – _a family_. The very idea was opium to his brain. Everything Petyr ever wanted was now just a breath away.

The girl had an inkling of Petyr’s involvement in her father’s rebellion, one that did not serve her family in the slightest. He didn’t need to touch on that at all. Whatever Sansa believed, it wasn’t held against him. She seemed to be willing to let go of the past and yet, here he was, clinging onto it almost desperately.

It had nothing to do with Cat. That boyish love was long dead many years ago, but the scars that forever marred his body, still held him in a vice grip. Petyr was supremely wealthy and could stay here in the country and live out their lives peacefully, but it wasn’t the truth. It was still a fantasy that both of them were toying with believing in – for as long as it might last.

Petyr knew that kind of ignorance and blatant avoidance of reality was a canon ready to blow up in their faces. Joffrey was unpredictable, the moment Petyr ceased being useful, he was scared to think of what would happen, not to himself, but to Sansa and any children. Before, Petyr had no one else in the world to worry about but himself. He could risk it all. Now, he had a wife, the love of his life that could soon be with child.

He couldn’t ignore the game that would continue on with or without him. He couldn’t stop playing and leave his fate in the hands of someone else. However, things were set in motion that could not be undone. It would be a better life for them, Petyr convinced himself. Their children would grow up without having to worry about their heritage, titles, or the value of an old name. They could marry whomever they wanted, do whatever they wanted. It would be a different kind of rebellion on an outdated system that was already dying slowly. Petyr was only going to expedite that necessary demise.

Petyr could take Sansa and leave the country but it didn’t seem right. His enemies would win. Joffrey, Edmure, Lysa, Myranda, the society that loathed his and Sansa’s very being. Petyr couldn’t allow his children to grow up as he had. Petyr couldn’t allow the people that destroyed their lives to live their own without the retribution they deserved. They didn’t deserve to be happy and treat everyone else like rubbish. They didn’t deserve to live easy off the backs of others.

Revenge was imprinted on his soul. No matter how much he loved Sansa, it had to be done. Ever since leaving Kings Landing, Petyr signed a few deals that would seal the fates of so many. There were too many collaborators involved now, on his payroll, on his assurances that demanded to be satisfied. Too many years, too much gold, promises and putting men in the right places, to back out now. Those men would likely turn on him and kill him for running away after so much had been invested in this venture to turn the world upside down.

Petyr lowered his news periodical and silently watched her as she painted near the window in the library. It would be so easy to forget the world and live day to day in contentment out here. _Live the life of a normal man_. It would be lovely to pretend the real world didn’t exist and he could spoil his wife to heaven and back, just to see her smile. The dream of having his own children with her…

“You’re staring,” he heard her voice as if in a faraway place.

“You’re beautiful,” he smiled at her from across the room.

Sansa blushed and Petyr would never tire of it. Even after tasting every inch of her body, ravaging her in ways that she never knew existed, she still managed to radiate that innocence. This pure and delicate nymph was his and Petyr still couldn’t believe it.

Petyr rose and crossed the room to her. She was painting the terrace overlooking the lake in its wintery state. It was rather good, he praised. Sansa was a romantic. It was ingrained in every she did. Her grace, music, carefully chosen words, the way she looked at him… even this painting told of how she saw the world. Even now, after all that had happened to her, Sansa could still see the good and what could be.

Somehow Petyr knew she would be happy here if the world let them be. Sansa was ready to make a new life with him, yet Petyr felt she had decided to ignore reality since declaring their love for one another. She wanted happiness so intensely that she almost seemed to pretend that they could play the loving family. Maybe it was he that was resisting, and Sansa who was right. Petyr just didn’t know.

Sansa was still so young and inexperienced in the ways of the world. Petyr had a lifetime and knew better. He would happily bury himself in this delectable, rosy dreamland but always in the back of his mind, he was anticipating the hidden dagger in his back. Someone or something was just waiting for him to let his guard down. Not only would he suffer the consequences, but so would she.

Once, he felt that way with Cat. He could have been blissfully happy in his dream of them. Her flirting, kisses, and what Petyr thought was love. It was a dream that came crashing down. Petyr couldn’t be a grown man with a foolish boy’s fantasy. Not a second time. This, what he had with Sansa, was so real that he could taste and touch it. It was right here in front of him now... and it scared him to death.

“How would you like to go to town tomorrow?” Petyr put on a smile for her. He knew what day it was. “I thought it would be good to get out of the house.”

Sansa beamed, making his heart light, even if for a short while. All Petyr wanted to do lately was shower her with gifts, kisses, and make love to her every night. There wasn’t much else to do way out here and in the middle of the winter no less. Such a pleasant past-time, he mused.

Petyr tried to let his worries go. He had mapped out what needed to be done to pull Joffrey off the throne, but many of those little seeds required time to mature. He had manipulated the finances, and in a few years, he would have everything he needed to bring down the monarchy. The crown would be bankrupt, the merchants, pirates, connections over-seas would be ripe for taking everything over. Petyr had been quietly putting his men into the right places for just the right time.

This kind of game took patience and time. It couldn’t be rushed. That’s how Stark’s rebellion was thwarted so easily. Ned, a proud and honorable man, didn’t know how to win this form of warfare. You don’t make your intentions known. Your enemies shouldn’t even know you’re their enemy let alone that you’re coming for them.

Perhaps another four years, Petyr surmised. He would stay out of the scrutinizing eye of society. The Riverlands would be profitable, while the king and the ton would believe they had won him and put him in his rightful place – making them rich.

Once Petyr had control over the Vale, and with the Riverlands in his keep, the smallfolk would be behind him. Sansa was more right than she knew. They must take care of their common peoples - housing and feeding them. Set the poor up to see the new lord and lady as one of them. Petyr wasn’t taxing them for a good reason. He needed to win them over, and when the time came, he would be seen as a rightful leader. They would be glad to be rid of the old ways of the aristocracy. The loyalty and backing of the people would be needed once the deed was done.

Joffrey and the kings before him kept people in line out of fear and poverty. Petyr was going to change all of that. Men that could feed their families and live decently were more apt to be content and not rebel. The more Joffrey and his ilk put their boot to the neck of the people, the more common folk would be happy to be rid of them. It was already happening across the country. The Riverlands and the Vale would be different. They would be utilized to help the people in their desperate time of need. Petyr would be seen as a savior of sorts. It was all just a matter of time and how to time it just right.

 

* * *

 

 

The sleigh ride into town was quite beautiful. The day was bright and sunny for late February. A little too bright as sunlight bounced off the snow, making Petyr squint a bit. Thankfully, spring would be just around the corner. Sansa was covered in her furs and snuggled into his side.

Small folk acknowledged them as they passed and Petyr could see that the many supplies he curried from Lysa were put to good use. Due to the last few mediocre seasons, the people here were desperate. Petyr gave them everything they needed to get through the winter. They would be more willing to work harder come spring if they weren’t starving and frozen to death.

Arriving at Lord Holloway’s Town, the place was bustling while the weather was favorable. One of Petyr’s merchant ships docked at the mouth of the river bringing in more supplies and a package he had been waiting a month for. The vessel was delayed but managed to arrive just in time. Petyr would have been dismayed if he couldn’t surprise her today. He was betting that Sansa didn’t know he was aware of her birthday. She hadn’t mentioned it, as Petyr believed it was something that had not been celebrated since her family perished.

She was three and twenty today if his research was correct. God, she was still so young. Petyr was almost twice her age. It was common for a man to take a young wife, but it wasn’t lost on Petyr on just how much difference there was between them. He had somewhat forgotten how old he was. There were days when he could feel it, needing those hot baths more often. Others, he could see it – the grey in his hair, the wrinkles that were deepening ever so slightly. By the time she reached his years now, he would be…

Petyr didn’t want to think of it. As long as he wasn’t round and bald, it wouldn’t matter too much by then. Hopefully, their children would be grown and having babies of their own. Petyr could sit back and enjoy the twilight of his life, smiling at what he had achieved. Just as long as Sansa didn’t take a young lover…

She linked her arm in his as the strolled the town. It was a good thing he was a wealthy man because his wife would make any other husband penniless. Petyr let her buy whatever she desired because it pleased him to do it. He loved seeing her face light up as they tinkered in many shops.

Lord Holloway’s Town was located on where the three rivers converged opening into the sea. It was ideally situated as a point in between the Riverlands, the Vale and heading north or south on Kings Road. In the year since taking Harrenhal, the town had grown thrice in size and was a major trading point. New merchants and shopkeepers were coming in to set up business and the trade was good after Petyr opened it up with ships traveling from Gulltown regularly. Lord Hollowway’s was completely under Petyr’s control.

Sansa stopped, and Petyr wondered what caught her eye this time. When he turned back towards her, he held his breath for a moment. A toymaker had set up shop. He hadn’t remembered this place the last time he was here on business.

Her eyes danced at all the little trinkets in the frost paned window and entered the shop, pulling him along. Petyr could only stare at her. It was as if she were a little girl again. He could see it and how he would have loved to spoil her even then. It was at that moment he saw it all before him. A daughter she could give him. She would have her flowing red hair, and Petyr would adore and protect her with his life. He would give his child anything and everything she ever wanted.

Sansa picked up a pretty doll with a painted porcelain face and smiled as if it brought a lovely memory to her mind. Her slender fingers touched almost everything and once brushed against her stomach. Petyr stopped breathing for a second. It was subtle and quick, but he saw it. Maybe he was reading too much into such a tiny movement. Sansa would have said something, wouldn’t she?

Petyr couldn’t stop the fast pace of his heart as he watched her every move, hoping she might give something else away. She found a few gilded music boxes and opened one, letting the soft tune tinkle sweetly in the small shop. If didn’t have the effect on him as it did her and suddenly Petyr needed fresh air.

He wasn’t sure how long until she noticed he was gone. The air was crisp outside as Petyr took deep and calming breaths.

“Are you alright?” her soft voice was laced with concern.

“A little stuffy in there, my love. I just needed some air,” he mixed the truth with a little lie.

There was worry with a hint of sadness in her eyes. Unconsciously, her hand briefly went to her stomach again, and Petyr’s heart skipped a beat. No, this needed to be a happy day. Petyr had to let the past go. His future was standing right next to him.

He smiled, “I’m famished. How about you?” He took her arm and kissed her cheek lightly. “I should have eaten more at breakfast.”

Sansa studied his face for a moment and seemed satisfied with his lie. She smiled back at him, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

They dined, drank their tea, and Petyr tried his best to bring that genuine glow back to her face.

“There was a reason we came here today,” he grinned, sipping his tea.

“Oh?”

“I have something very special for you, sweetling,” he said, watching her fidget with her wedding ring nervously.

Petyr retrieved a letter from his inside his coat and set it before her, the wax seal broken.

“A gift on your birthday,” he smiled warmly.

“A gift – for me…” she mumbled confusedly.

“You didn’t think I knew?” Petyr raised an eyebrow playfully.

Sansa was flustered, and Petyr loved it.

“I – well, I just assumed. I didn’t think it was important,” Sansa mumbled, her eyes never leaving the parchment that sat before her.

“My beloved wife, not important?” he tutted with a smile. After a moment, he teased her again. “Aren’t you going to open it at least?”

Petyr watched her face as she opened the letter and scanned it with a furrowed brow.

“I don’t understand. A woman has accepted a commission from you?” she glanced up at him, and Petyr couldn’t help it. She was precious.

“I’m ashamed of you, my dear. Don’t you know the name? A well-educated lady, well versed in art, surely would know what gift I have given her,” he teased.

“Madame Louise Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun?” she questioned. Petyr could see she was trying to work it out.

“She painted Marie-Antoinette. Only a woman that paints the portrait of the late Queen of France is good enough to immortalize my wife. If Boucher wasn’t already dead, I might be tempted to have a more scandalous painting of you, but a portrait fit for a queen will do. I spared no expense in bringing her here next month,” he shrugged sipping from his teacup.

She clutched the paper as if it were made of gold.

“A portrait? Of me?” she wondered aloud.

“You’re three and twenty, and long past having your likeness made. I daresay, Madame de Pompadour will be green with jealousy,” he grinned. “For nothing would be more beautiful than you.”

There it was. That spark of happiness in Sansa’s eyes again. She was giddy as a little girl at the thought of sitting for an artist, a woman no less, that painted the likes of royalty.

“Of course, a new gown was necessary as well. It arrived today along with something else that might just match it,” Petyr said, attempting to keep his tone calm and nonchalant all the while seeing her face light up.

“Just me? Aren’t you going to be in it too?” she asked sincerely.

“Me?” he japed. “Oh, sweetling, you’re too kind. I fear I’m not handsome enough that my face needs to be put on canvas.”

“But you’re my husband. The Marquess. Surely, we should have one together?” she told him. “I _want_ it to be both of us.”

The idea of sitting for hours in a single pose was far from anything Petyr desired to do. The hope in her eyes was his undoing. Petyr was pathetic for he couldn’t deny her anything.

“Alright, my love,” he acquiesced. “If that is truly what you want.”

The redhead flashed him the most brilliant smile, and Petyr chuckled into his tea. Dear God, this woman would be the death of him.

They picked up the packages that contained her new gown and jewels that Petyr specifically had designed for it, for the most beautiful portrait ever commissioned. They strolled back to the sleigh and passed a tavern that was full of drunken patrons.

“Well, doesn’t this paint the pretty picture?” a slurred voice grumbled. A man was leaning against the sleigh and Petyr paused, putting his hand to Sansa’s arm, warning her.

Edmure Tully was downright drunk and looked ready to fall to the ground if the sleigh wasn’t holding him up.

Petyr sighed, holding onto Sansa’s arm, “Edmure. What are you doing here?”

“I’m not allowed to drink at any of the taverns near Riverrun because of you… so I came out here,” he slurred. Petyr noticed the man was holding a sword like a walking cane. “I need to spend my allowance somehow.”

“I see,” Petyr groused. “Let’s get you a room and on the morrow return you to Mrs. Cole.”

Edmure chuckled darkly and took a swig from a bottle.

“Planning to put me six feet under are you, Petyr? I found the stash of gold you’ve been sending her when she died last month.”

Sansa gasped, putting a gloved hand to her mouth. She looked at Petyr with tearful eyes, but he couldn’t let any emotion lead him.

“Edmure, you’re drunk. Let us help you…” Petyr offered.

“I don’t want your help, Petyr. You’ve helped plenty,” Edmure scowled at Sansa. “Made a whore out of my niece… taken my lands, my family home…”

“Sansa is my wife, you should choose your words more carefully,” Petyr warned with ice in his voice.

The man laughed loudly, catching the attention of people around them.

“ _Wife?_ So you’ve finally done it, have you?” Edmure drunkenly roared. “You couldn’t fuck and marry my sister, so you stole her daughter instead. She looks just like Cat, doesn’t she Petyr? You sick, arrogant son of a bitch.”

Sansa pulled her arm from his and stood shocked at the revelation.

“My sisters are dead, and you married my niece,” he slurred. “Did you finally get everything you wanted? Cat would be turning in her grave if she knew what you’ve done.”

“Edmure,” Petyr warned.

“What, are you going to kill me? Go ahead. I have nothing now,” Edmure chuckled and walked towards them, tripping a bit over the cobblestones. “I should kill you now. Take everything back.”

Edmure grabbed Sansa by the wrist, yanking her over to him. Petyr was quick and pulled his rapier from the floor of the sleigh, unsheathing it. He was not good with a musket, but he had learned the sword well enough to defend himself. By the time, a confident man missed the intended target and had to reload, Petyr could stab him through the heart and be done with it.

“You’re coming home with me,” he told Sansa. Her eyes grew wide with fear as she looked between the two men. “I refuse to let you stay with the likes of him.”

“You didn’t seem so anxious to come and save her months ago,” Petyr retorted coldly. “She read your letter.”

“That’s when she was your whore,” Edmure replied nastily. “Now, you’ve made her the Marchioness of Harrenhal. If I kill you now,” he raised his own sword, pointing it at Petyr, “We’ll have everything back just as it was.”

“And the next lord that comes after me?” Petyr smiled. “It will be retaken from you. Do you really think the king will side with you? A drunk and a fool that let his family’s land go to rot?”

Petyr was cautious and watched Edmure’s every move. He was drunk, uncoordinated and holding a weapon inches from Sansa.

“I heard the king kicked you out of the capital,” the drunk grinned. “You’re out of favor with the court, I’d say. Ned would kill you if he knew his daughter was the wife of a man that helped destroy him. I should have killed you that day. Too bad Cat stopped me. If you had died… they might be alive.”

Petyr closed his eyes for a moment. No, not now. This wasn’t happening. He glanced at Sansa and saw the most terrible pain in her eyes.

“Ned Stark’s rebellion was doomed before it began,” Petyr sighed. “He told the Queen Mother that he knew the children were bastards when Robert died. He warned her not knowing what kind of woman she was. Ned had no idea who he was dealing with. He didn’t have the support of the southern houses. I had hoped the rebellion could be squashed quickly and save Cat and the children. Never would I have believed that Joffrey was that ruthless and out for blood.”

“Wanted Ned out of the way, you mean,” Edmure sputtered. “Take my sister for yourself, is that right? Now, you’ve soiled her daughter.”

“You fool. I would have done anything to keep Catelyn and the children from harm. I was too late to stop it,” Petyr growled. “You have no right to criticize me. You were her _brother_ and did nothing. You saved your own skin. You _and_ Lysa. Lysa treated Sansa like dirt under her boot. You, might as well just made her a servant. How dare you! You don’t know the meaning of love.”

Edmure cackled, and for the first time, Sansa was trying to pull away from her uncle.

“Love? That’s rich. You thought Cat loved you. She only liked playing with you. You were never going to be good enough for her. Tell me, Petyr, do you still hear the songs she used to sing? Keep them in that box? I’m willing to bet you still have it. You took Sansa and made her into her mother. Forced her to be your wife. She doesn’t love you any more than Cat did. You’ve done nothing but turn her into a harlot. God help me, she would be better off dead than obliged to live in such shame.”

Sansa froze at those words while Edmure’s hand was still clamped around her wrist. She looked desperately between her uncle and Petyr.

“Edmure, you’re inebriated. You wouldn’t hurt her,” Petyr spoke softly, lowering his sword. He didn’t want to provoke the man. “Hear what you’re saying. Look at Sansa, you wouldn’t dare harm her. Your only niece.”

“You can’t have everything Petyr,” Edmure wailed drunkenly. “Cat never belonged to you. Sansa doesn’t belong to you.” He pointed the sword at Sansa. His hand shook as the blade was so near her stomach.

Petyr held his breath and tried to figure out what to do. Edmure was incensed, drunk, and armed.

“Uncle, please,” she whimpered and trembled. “Please.”

“Let her go, Edmure,” Petyr begged softly. “It’s me you want to hurt. Not her.”

“You’re right,” he growled and pushed Sansa into the wall.

Edmure lunged at him, but Petyr quickly parried. If Edmure were sober, this would be a more dangerous contest. Petyr never could best him as children, but many years had passed, and Petyr was far more skilled than that young boy.

“Stop it!” Sansa screamed. “Stop this, both of you!”

She tried to push Petyr back, and Edmure sliced his upper arm in the process, making him hiss in pain.

“Sansa, keep away!” he shoved her to the side.

“I’m going to kill you,” Edmure spat, lunging in again and Petyr deflected him easily.

“I am _not_ the little boy you used to beat down,” Petyr retorted. “I’ve learned much since then.”

“Damn you both, stop this!” she yelled again.

A man tried to grab Petyr from behind as another was pushing at Edmure. The Tully man saw the advantage and went to lunge in when he saw Petyr’s sword-wielding arm yanked back. In slow motion, all Petyr could see was Sansa rushing to his aid as Edmure’s sword plunged forward. In a flash, the weapon crashed to the ground as the man tackled the drunk, pushing him into the gutter. Sansa fell down hard into the sleigh.

Petyr dropped his sword, pulling her up and nspecting her for any injury.

“Are you hurt?” Petyr pleaded while Sansa sobbed.

He couldn’t see a mark on her, but his rage only flamed higher.

“You drunken fool! You could have killed her!” Petyr roared, charging the man before two men held him back. “You stupid, son of a bitch!”

Before he could stop her, Petyr saw Sansa climb in the sleigh and whip the reigns as the horses pulled out into the street.

“Sansa!” he yelled, pulling away from the men that held him. “Goddamnit!” he swore more to himself.

She would be halfway to Harrenhal before he found himself a horse. Petyr knew that’s where she was going.

A few men from the tavern that was on Petyr’s payroll came out to survey the commotion. Petyr paced in front of Edmure, who was practically passed out.

“Get him out of here. Take him to Riverrun,” Petyr ordered, handing one man some gold. “I need a horse.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

Sansa reached the front steps of Harrenhal as the tears had already dried on her face, frozen streams on her pale skin. It wasn't just her beloved Mrs. Cole's death that broke her heart in two.

_He lies to you_

The footmen were calling out if she was alright as she hurried inside. Sansa passed two maids and hauled her skirts to run up the stairs.

_He is lost on another_

She ran past her door and opened Petyr’s. She knew what she was looking for. Throwing open the door to his dressing room, it was there on the vanity. Sansa was panting looking at the gilded, carved box. Twitching fingers opened it, and that tune played as if a cruel joke.

Sansa could hear that tune her mother used to sing to her and Arya as a child. She had almost forgotten it, the sweet lullaby, for Sansa hadn’t heard it in years. It wasn’t a song from the north or the Riverlands, it was something her mother made up. In her dream, after she fell in the labyrinth, Sansa thought she heard her father singing it. It wasn’t Father, it was Petyr. Petyr’s voice sang this tune.

_It is very precious to me_

The little spirit kept putting it in her room. It wasn’t a ghost, nor Petyr or a servant full of mischief. The faerie spirit wanted Sansa to have this or to know about it.

_It will come to pass, and you will see the truth_

Lifting the music box, she inspected it and finally turned it over. Sansa’s eyes grew wide.

_Her name is carved in music and must be broken_

Sansa’s breath was shallow as her fingers glided over the engraved name on the bottom of the music box.

_Catelyn_

“There is an explanation, my dear,” his voice echoed behind her.

Sansa’s eyes flared while her hands shook from anger.

“Explanation,” she muttered numbly. “I’m waiting for an answer,” she repeated Petyr’s words from long ago when he thought she stole this from his room. “Perhaps I should supply it?”

Her uncle’s words rang in her mind –

_Tell me Petyr, do you still hear the songs she used to sing? Keep them in that box? I’m willing to bet you still have it. You took Sansa and made her into her mother._

“Why do you have my mother’s music box?” she finally voiced. “Did you steal it? Keep a memento of your unrequited love?”

“It’s not your mother’s,” he sighed.

“Her name is carved on the bottom,” she seethed. “I’m not a complete fool.” She chuckled darkly at her own words. “Perhaps I am. I fell for your lies, didn’t I?”

“It never belonged to her,” he grimaced and leaned exhausted against the door frame. “I made it. Took the song she used to sing to me and had the tune made. Cost me quite a bit, all I had. I spent months making that box. In the end, she refused to accept it.”

“You’re still in love with her,” Sansa forced out. “Why keep such a thing? You were livid that I had it. Then you were going to give it to me…”

“I was upset that you took it from my room at the time,” he said calmly. “You said you were afraid of it, so I put it away. I thought you already knew by the way you acted. I would have given it to you if it meant so much.”

“If I had known, I would have walked all the way back to Riverrun. Now I know why I was afraid of it,” she closed her eyes. “It was a ghost haunting _you_ , not me. I would have found out then that I wasn’t a poor substitute for Myranda… but for my own mother. You loved her so much you dueled for her. That’s what that scar is, isn’t it? You were willing to die for her?”

“Yes,” she heard him admit. “ _Sansa, I was a boy…_ ”

“Yet a man kept this with him after all these years,” she sighed. “Would you have tried to woo her again if Joffrey had not killed her? You said you came too late. Would you have been her savior? Whisked her away here. Married her?”

She glanced at him, and Petyr couldn’t even look at her.

“Yes.”

Sansa’s lip quivered when she turned her back on him.

“A shame, really. Mother wouldn’t have married you for love. Maybe security and your money,” Sansa uttered, knowing her words would cut like a knife. “Or not at all because she loved Father. Hmph, were you ever going to tell me? Or let me live a lie?”

“It’s not a lie, sweetling,” Petyr began. “You said yourself that fate had worked its path to bring us here. You were right. I didn’t know you then. Our paths were not meant to cross at that time.”

Sansa couldn’t face him. She rubbed her stomach as the knowledge was killing her. She was forever tied to him and not just by marriage.

“Your mother and I…” he breathed. “It was never meant to be. It was a boy’s fantasy. A reminder of what I could never be to her in a world like this. Remember the painting of Goliath? Also, a reminder – that those fables I believed in were never true. The boy doesn’t beat the giant. The poor boy with nothing doesn’t win the fair lady. The painting, the music box served as a way to contain the pain I never wanted to feel ever again.”

“A man that feels no pain, no love… can marry a woman he doesn’t love just to use her. That man can tear the world apart. A man that keeps secrets hidden in this house and has enough weapons for a small army tucked safely away in an old labyrinth. After you’ve burned the world down, what would I be then? Your little prize. A second rate doppelganger of the woman you really loved?”

Petyr’s eyes widened in surprise about what she knew. He was never going to tell her that either, she was willing to bet. That betrayal and fury was rising like molten fire in her belly as she clutched the box hard enough to break her fingers.

“You wanted me to be her, didn’t you? That’s why you took me from Riverrun. Mrs. Cole said I looked like her when she was my age. Do you pretend it’s her when you kiss me? Do you see and fantasize about her when you’re in bed with me?” Sansa bellowed, chucking the music box at Petyr, barely missing him. It shattered to pieces against the wall, the tinkle of a couple chimes sounded before silence engulfed them.

“Let me guess,” she laughed, pacing the dressing room, feeling a hysteria come over her. God, she wanted to hit him. Scream at the top of her lungs, cry and barge out of this room all at once.

“You wage a little war and use me as a scapegoat? The traitor’s daughter would be perfect for such a role. If it all goes to hell, it will come back on me, right? The Stark you were forced to marry. Or did that ruin your carefully crafted plans? Now, they’re _watching_ you because of me? You only wanted me as a mistress, didn’t you? You don’t love me… you don’t love this – “

Sansa stopped herself. Did she want to tell him? It was early enough that Sansa could get rid of it quickly if she wanted. She was only a few weeks past her cycle. She was going to tell Petyr today, that she knew for sure. Now, Sansa didn’t know what to do. Petyr was uncomfortable in that toy shop. Maybe he lied and didn’t want children, after all. It was just to placate her.

_Do you want children?_

_Do you?_

Did he? Was it all in her head? Sansa was still romantic and hoping that this was real between them. Petyr stood there, silent as the grave. He didn’t defend himself at all or try to convince her she was overreacting. He clutched his bloodied arm, and Sansa vaguely wondered, how badly he was hurt.

“When I took you from Riverrun, I thought I was protecting something of her,” Petyr whispered. “Never, had I ever believed that I could love again. I didn’t know what to do with you. You ruined practically every plan I set in place – turned everything topsy turvy…”

“Oh, I see… _I ruined everything?_ It was _you_ that brought me here… you…” she screamed and started throwing items from his vanity at him. “You made me believe I was mad, you seduced me, you threw me to wolves in Kings Landing… led me to believe…”

Petyr marched across the room, pinning her to the wall, as she tried to hit and slap him.

“ _Hear me_ ,” he said harshly. “I never planned for you. Do you understand? I changed _everything_ for you. You do look like her, that’s the truth. The reason I took you from Riverrun isn’t the reason you’re here with me now. The first time I kissed you, I knew. It’s always been you and no one else. Not Myranda, not a ghost from the past. You dazzled me in every way. Cat couldn’t hold a candle to you. You are a greater woman than she could ever have been. I was scared of opening my heart again, don’t you see? How could an angel like you… love a man like me.”

“I don’t believe you,” she sobbed. “You’ll say anything to keep me quiet now, won’t you?”

The sadness in his eyes was breaking her down slowly. “You will be the death of me, my little witch. Make no mistake. Turn me over to Joffrey, if you must. He is the one I plan on bringing down. A war _is_ coming, my love, but not in the way you might think. I should have told you. I thought I was protecting you. Perhaps the less you knew, the better off you would be.”

“You’re a fool,” Sansa spat, trying to wiggle out of his vice grip. “My father, one of the finest military commanders, couldn’t even win and he had an army. You’re going to die, Petyr, and they will hang me along with you.”

Petyr refused to let her go, pressing against her firmly. Sansa struggled and elbowed his injured arm. Petyr cursed but didn't let go.

“Not all wars are won with armies having at each other in an open field, my dear,” his tone dangerous and still. “A smart man finds his enemies weakness and exploits it. He plays a slow and controlled strategy, one that has taken me years, long before your father made the fatal mistake of using honor as his armor. My way isn’t noble or honorable, but it will do the job far better and with less blood spilt.”

Petyr kissed her forehead but kept her arms still, for Sansa would surely have hit him again. She could see his arm was bleeding through his topcoat.

“However I have wronged you, I will make amends. If I could take it back…”

“You can’t undo what is done. Not to me. You can’t take it back,” she growled and took off the emerald ring. “Take it. I don’t want it. We are already forever cursed you and I, for this child will hate us both and what we have bore it into.”

Petyr’s eyes lit up like the sun for a moment but the sorrow that emanated off him, cast dark clouds. No, Sansa would not break. He did this to her. Immediately, Petyr released her arms. Slowly and unexpectedly, he sunk to his knees. His hands slid down her waist, resting at her hips.

Before she could push him away, Petyr wrapped his arms around her, pressing his cheek to her belly. For the longest time, it was silent. He held her, and Sansa was reeling with emotions. She wanted to shove him off her, rail at him for getting her with child… this, everything was a lie, and now she would have to bring a child into this world.

The tears streamed down her face, but Sansa willed herself not to make a sound. His face turned and planted a kiss on her corseted tummy, his arms never leaving her.

“I love you,” he murmured against her and Sansa wasn’t sure if it was for her or their unborn baby beginning to grow inside her.

“You’re a liar,” she cried, her eyes blinking away the tears. Looking down, his dark hair was all she could see. Her hand hovered over his head. Sansa wanted so much to run her fingers through his silky hair. Petyr held her as if he never wanted to let her go. Her hand trembled, but at the last minute, she made a fist and pulled it away from him. He lied to her from the very beginning.

“I love you,” he kissed up to her chest as Sansa shoved him, but he wouldn’t let go.

“I hate you,” she groaned when his mouth whispered just above her collarbone.

“No, you don’t,” he breathed and tasted the skin under her ear.

“Don’t touch me. I hate everything about you,” Sansa snarled, pushing at his chest.

Petyr grabbed her wrists gently but firmly enough to keep them at bay. His mouth moved around her jaw, and Sansa hated that he knew exactly where she liked to be kissed. No, she couldn’t believe him. It was a trick. Everything was a game to him.

 _I don’t love him. I don’t_.

“You are everything to me,” he hummed along her neck. “Without you, I am nothing. I will die for you, for our child. The past is gone, my love. The only thing that matters is here and now – you and I. God in heaven... _I never loved her the way I love you_.”

Petyr took her mouth, and she fought him for a few moments. He never relented even when she bit his bottom lip. His tongue tasted the drop of blood as she pulled away, and the look in his eyes was filled with lust. No, she thought. _He wouldn’t_.

He took her wrists in one hand and pulled them above her head against the wall. His free hand traced her lips and flinched when she tried to bite him. She wasn’t going to play this game with him. Her eyes flared a bit, daring him to try and kiss her again. She would draw his blood but good.

“Say you love me,” Petyr commanded softly, his eyes burning with desire.

“No,” she breathed harshly.

Petyr pressed himself hard against Sansa, and assaulted a spot on her neck. He pushed her legs apart just far enough to step between them when she tried to kick his shin.

“Tell me you love me, sweetling,” he groaned into her skin where inevitably a bruise would form tomorrow.

“Aren’t you calling me by the wrong name?” she sneered and jerked her head to the side. She wasn’t her mother.

Sansa felt him smile against her skin, and it wasn’t the desired effect she had planned.

Petyr groaned, “I love my little witch.”

His hand cupped her sex through the many layers of her dress and massaged deep circles. Pulling his mouth away, he stared passionately into her eyes.

“You love me. Say it,” Petyr whispered inches from her mouth.

“Go to hell,” she gasped hotly when his hand found that bundle of nerves.

“Only if you come into the depths with me,” he grinned wickedly and claimed her mouth again. “It’s only with me are you truly willing to fall into that pit of licentiousness. You do trust me, for every time, I bring you back into the light again, my Persephone. Fall with me from grace… _tell me you love me_.”

Sansa’s hips moved with his hand and she could feel how wet her small clothes had become. Damn Petyr. Damn him to hell and back for making her feel this way. How did this happen? She was furious with him still but wanted him desperately. Unconsciously, Sansa moaned deeply into his mouth, and that’s all he needed. When his tongue touched hers, Sansa was suddenly lost in him. She aggressively kissed him back and felt him growl with desire.

Petyr let her hands go, and she had the opportunity to throttle him, but when he tore open the front of her dress and took a nipple into his mouth, all she could do was hold his head there. He sucked and lavished attention and Sansa ran her fingers through his hair.

“Take this off,” he moaned and whipped her around, unlacing the back of her dress with lightning speed. Shrugging out of his jacket and unbuttoning his waistcoat, Petyr pressed her up against the wall, letting her feel him along her backside. His cravat hanging from his neck, Sansa was tempted to strangle him with it when he turned her around to face him again. He devoured her mouth, backing her up towards his vanity.

With a swipe of his arm, everything was off the table as he placed her on top of it. Petyr didn’t unbutton his breeches, even though she could see his cock straining against the material. Instead, Petyr gathered her chemise above her hips and slid aside her small clothes. With a wicked gleam in his eye, he spread her legs and knelt between them. His tongue trailed fire along the inside of the thigh before hovering just above her curls.

Sansa waited breathlessly, the look in his eyes was enough to boil her blood. When his mouth covered her, she bucked against him. It wasn’t gentle as he feasted on her. His tongue licked, flicked, and danced, making her cry out. She fisted his hair, pulling his face harder into her and Petyr obliged the voiceless command. Sansa wasn’t nervous this time. She knew how good his mouth felt on her and ground into him unabashedly.

Petyr wrapped his arms around her hips, pulling her roughly to his fiendish mouth. He devoured her like a man starving. His groans vibrated, and it was all Sansa could do not to thrust harder against his face. She almost fell off the table when his fingers joined his delicious tongue. Her moans overcame his and the sound of the table hitting the wall in time with the thrusting of his hand.

“Oh my God,” she whimpered, feeling the beginning of that first shudder. Her inner thighs were slick while Petyr’s face and hand were glistening from her juices. She thought for certain his mouth would be tired, but he pushed on feeling that she was just on the cusp.

Quickly, Petyr pulled away before Sansa could finish to her frustration. Not wasting any time, Petyr unbuttoned his breeches and stroked himself a couple times before hooking her knees in his arms. He teased and prodded her but wouldn’t let her get close enough.

“Tell me you love me,” he panted, letting the crown of his cock rub against her opening.

“Fuck you,” Sansa shot out in anger, and even the vulgarity shocked Petyr. She would have never known such a word, let alone use it. Petyr taught her so many things in their short time together. He brought out a side to her that no lady should be.

He licked his lips and smiled lasciviously, “As you wish, my wife.”

Petyr hauled her to him and plunged in deeply making them both moan. The table rocked as he fucked her hard and Sansa couldn’t find anything to hold onto until finally grabbing him by the shoulders. His upper arm was bleeding through his shirt and Sansa thought they should stop and dress it. All such thoughts left her mind when he lifted her up and Sansa wrapped her legs around him. For a slender man, Petyr was stronger than he looked. He pushed her up against the wall holding her under her thighs for support.

She had to hold onto to him or fall. His hips thrust up and ground against that little nub that was on fire. Petyr grunted in the effort and pumped harder and faster. He sucked on her neck and Sansa braced one hand on the wall to steady herself and the other around his neck. She could smell herself on him. Petyr’s mouth found hers again as she tasted that musk. Savoring herself on his tongue, the feel of him inside her and the thrill that he liked the tang of her. Petyr loved giving her pleasure with his mouth, and for some strange reason, she liked tasting it on him.

Sansa wondered briefly if they could be damaging the delicate baby inside her, but when he angled her hips to meet his and hit the spot inside, she lost all control.

“Harder,” her voice cracked, and Petyr’s eyes furrowed with concentration and gave her what she begged for.

“Say it,” he growled deeply.

Sansa knew what he wanted to hear, but pride was losing the battle to ecstasy. She needed to come yet Petyr was holding back, leaving her just on edge.

“Goddamnit, you stubborn woman,” Petyr panted harshly. “You _know_ you’re the only one I want. There is no room in my heart for anyone else. I need to hear it.”

Petyr slowly considerably and Sansa thought he was going to stop altogether. He couldn’t stop, not now. She was burning alive.

“You want me to lie to you?” she bit back, bucking against him.

“You want me to stop fucking you?” he growled, turning and abruptly, tossing her down on her back on a large, plush ottoman in the middle of the room. He spread her legs wide and plunged deep and hard forcing a cry from her lungs.

“Do you?” he huffed, finding that spot again and hitting it every time.

“No,” she wheezed, feeling that desperate rush and grasped his narrow hips.

“Then lie to me,” he moaned loudly, fucking her faster and her body started to pulse.

“Oh, dear God..” she wailed, not caring anymore. “I love you. Oh, please… don’t stop.”

“Say it again,” he groaned, his hips pounding into hers.

“I love you,” she cried out, feeling it deep in her soul. “I do love you, Petyr. _I do_.”

Sansa wasn’t lying. She did love him against all odds and better judgment. Whether Petyr believed her at this moment, she couldn’t tell. Her body tensed, her toes curled, and Sansa held onto him as it hit her hard. Her hips had a mind of their own and bucked erratically. Petyr was louder than she had ever heard him before. He was going to come, and he was calling out her name over and over as he spilled into her.

Shuddering for a moment, Petyr came to his senses and pushed his weight off her as if suddenly remembering she was with child. He was out of breath and slid off the ottoman between her legs, resting his head on her thigh.

His hand came up and traced little circles on her tummy as she came down from her high, gasping for air. She glanced around, and the dressing room was in shambles. The shattered music box, his entire vanity on the floor... they would have to clean this up themselves. Sansa didn't want any servants to see this. Petyr hummed softly, bringing her attention back to him.

“When?” he asked reverently, feeling her stomach as if searching for the little thing that would be his son or daughter.

“September, I think,” she breathed slowly. “That is if we haven’t…” Sansa couldn’t say it. She wanted this baby more than anything in the world.

Petyr searched the rug, and Sansa wondered what he was looking for when the ring was slipped back onto her finger.

“You know me, sweetling,” he smiled sadly. “I don’t like losing. I’m not giving up on you just yet. I have until autumn to make you love me again. If not, I’ll care amply for you and the child if you wish to leave me. I’ll find somewhere safe where nothing can harm you.”

Sansa swallowed hard and sat up to look at him, pushing down her chemise.

“You would give up your only child?” she asked in wonder.

Petyr sighed, caressing her cheek. “To protect you both, then yes. If you truly do hate me by the time you give birth… that is if you still want to have my, I mean our, child. I cannot bear to see you unhappy. You know my secrets. It’s not an easy thing to tell your wife and beloved that you once loved her mother… and expect her to forgive you. You may not want to be involved with my machinations, which to be fair, had begun before we met. However, I would be selfish to force you into it with me. At least now there are no more secret between us. You can decide if love or _my_ love for you is enough to stay.”

“How are you going to dethrone Joffrey and the Tyrells?” she asked skeptically.

Petyr rested his chin on her hip. “Ah, quite brilliantly. It will be over before they even know what hit them. My people are well-placed, and in a few years, everything will be at the ready. Just a little patience on our side.”

“Do you have a crown picked out?” she smirked.

“Do I wish to be king? Dear God, no. I don’t fancy someone plotting to kill me every day,” Petyr chuckled. “No one is going to allow me anywhere near the throne.”

“Then, who?” Sansa frowned.

Anyone from the ton would be just as horrible. If Margery wasn’t with child, succession could befall several people, depending on who Petyr kept alive. That thought alone made her shudder followed by an equally troubling notion. Had Petyr killed before? The very concept didn’t seem to bother him.

“Someone whom we control completely,” Petyr smiled. “Granted, he wasn’t too happy that you were forced to marry me, but if you truly wish to divorce me after Joffrey is dead, I suppose I could arrange for you to be queen after all.”

“Robert,” she breathed.

“Yes, our dear Duke of the Vale,” Petyr caressed her hip. “Or should I say, the next King of Westeros who will bring a much-needed democracy to the country.”

 

* * *

 

 


	32. Chapter 32

 

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It was mesmerizing to behold. It didn’t matter how many times Petyr passed by, he would stop and stare at her. Those auburn curls glowed as if reflecting the flame of the setting sun. A beautiful contrast to the silver and emerald of her dress. Many portraits were painted to flatter a person’s physical inadequacies, but Sansa’s fire and ice were captured brilliantly.

The artist did not need to accentuate her beauty. Her flawless milk and honey skin, the elegant curve to her neck that held the emerald and diamond necklace he had made, just as the gown, for this portrait alone. Sansa was a jewel with a deep fire, a queen, regal and untouchable. The ring had a glimmer to it on her delicate hand, and attention was made to the tiniest detail from her full lips to the flat tummy the artist chose instead of Sansa’s ever-growing belly. For all its perfection, it was her eyes that Petyr could not stop gazing into.

There was no cause to see the ocean for she carried it in her eyes. If he stood in just the right place, she was looking directly at him. Petyr closed his eyes with a smile. He knew the exact moment as if the artist had frozen it in time, forever for him to remember.

Sansa sat patiently as the artist sketched and painted. The scent of oils and paint wafted throughout the main floor of the house. The canvas was large enough to cover the wall in which Petyr intended for its home. It was a massive undertaking, and when the weeks flew by, he knew it would take much longer than he thought to complete.

Spring turned to summer as Sansa began to show while their child grew inside her. The artist chose to depict her slender waist instead of a forthcoming mother. Initially, her eyes were slightly cold as they stared straight ahead at nothing. Petyr did not wish to hover during those long sessions, but it didn’t stop him from peaking at the work in progress before heading to bed.

Sansa had been angry when Petyr decided that it should be her, and her alone for the portrait. She wanted them together, but after her birthday, Petyr changed his mind. If he couldn’t win back her love, he would have this, her, immortalized. The last thing Petyr wanted was a portrait of them if she ended up hating him. It would be cold and forever remind him of the chasm that had been created that day. As the weeks passed and the painting progressed, Petyr was afraid that Sansa’s blank, cold stare would showcase her unhappiness with him.

Petyr had showered her with gifts since that fateful day in late February. He courted and doted on her without abandon. Perhaps it was a silly thing to woo one’s wife, but Petyr knew they couldn’t go back, and the only way forward was to not only win her love again but more importantly her trust. She knew what lay in the labyrinth and yet had stayed silent for months. Sansa was not a fool. She may not know the whole truth since Petyr only gave her what he felt she needed to know – for the time being. Petyr could only placate her for so long.

Sansa didn’t need to know the more gruesome details of putting Robert on the throne. He hadn’t lied. Petyr had no intention of bringing her into this. Here she would stay – unless she decided to leave him. Sansa and his child would be protected with everything Petyr possessed. Before finding that frightened girl in Riverrun, he had laid those plans years ago to bring the Lannisters down. The realm, or at least its finances, were entirely in his control. The markets, guards, trade, and key people placed throughout the kingdom – all his and no one in power knew it. Petyr was willing to risk it all to burn it down…

However, now, he had a wife. Not just any woman and not someone expendable. He loved her deeply. As Sansa’s belly grew, so did his excitement – and fear. Petyr did not know how to be a father. Lord Tully was the only father he really remembered, and that man cast him out like a pebble in his shoe. Petyr wanted to give his child everything he never had. He had more than enough money to keep Sansa and his future son or daughter in the lap of luxury for the rest of their lives. Petyr wasn’t sure how he would feel when that day finally came, and his child was placed in his arms.

Sleeping in his bed, alone, after so many months of sharing Sansa’s was tough. Petyr couldn’t sleep. Every night, she snuggled into his side, or he held her to him from behind. The beating of her heart was a sedative. Sansa was safe in his arms. He was tuned into her. If she moved or left the bed, he knew.

Petyr had slept alone his entire life, but Sansa was a drug he desperately needed now. His own room was alien to him. He would hear her some nights, muffled cries, and how many times he came to the door to find it locked. Petyr would knock and ask if she was alright. Most of the time, she would reply that she was all right.

Nightmares seemed to plague her while the sickness would come and go. Mrs. Ames reassured him it was normal. Sansa adamantly refused to let a doctor see to her and Petyr couldn’t really contest it. He trusted Mrs. Ames completely with Sansa after that day of the labyrinth. He owed that old woman so much for keeping his beloved from death.

Business, however, could not be ignored. The rain had been plentiful, and thankfully it gave way to warm spring. All of Petyr’s money had been well spent. The Riverlands were going to be more than fruitful this season. It was as if the stars had aligned. Sansa was warming to him again, the child was healthy and growing fast, and the crops would bring a bountiful harvest.

The locals were doing well, and every time he traveled to the towns, Petyr was greeted with goodwill from the smallfolk. Sansa’s, and his own generosity had paved the way with the people, just as Petyr had hoped. It would all be necessary, and when the time came, Petyr was relying on that good favor to hold the people to him in those uncertain times.

He was already insanely wealthy, but that wealth was being put to good use. Not only here but around the country and to those outside the borders. Those key people were placed just right, with time and just a bit more patience… it would all work. Petyr had to keep one foot in reality and not lose himself entirely in his wife and new family.

Petyr opened his eyes and gazed into her bright blue orbs that stared back at him from the painting. They were no longer cold and distant. He remembered walking in that day when the artist was focusing on small details, making little changes here and there. She had asked Sansa to pose once more, even though the dress no longer could be laced in the back.

It wasn’t the dress or her body. The artist didn’t seem to like the coldness emanating from her eyes, just as Petyr had feared. Sansa’s face and breasts were just a bit fuller. She was glowing, for just the day before, Petyr gave her sheets of music that he had written. The music she had suggested he write months ago. It was only a simple melody, but it succeeded where all the gold, jewels, and gowns could not. Her face lit up, and finally, after months of this estrangement, Sansa smiled, reaching her eyes.

Petyr had played in the music room as Sansa posed for the artist. The song had a touch of melancholy due to the loneliness he felt. Petyr often wondered what she was thinking in the next room. Sansa never asked why he played the same song all the time. Did it touch her the way it did him?

Unlike other songs he tinkered with and were soon forgotten, this one stuck in his mind. Petyr found himself many nights in his study, writing it down on parchment. He was no great composer and struggled a bit with putting what was in his head and echoed from silent fingers drumming on his desk, into a solid form. The ink was dry, and Petyr was finally satisfied. He didn’t give it a title, leaving the space blank.

Sansa played it without a single question to his lazy penmanship. The first bar rang delicately in the room, and Petyr smiled. He had not failed, after all. She played it as if she knew it by heart. He stood outside the music room listening, not wanting to loom over her or make her nervous that she might not be reading his work correctly. Her fingers on the keys resonated what he felt when writing it. Sansa played with feeling. She had understood him in some way. That emotion couldn’t only be from him. Petyr was asking for forgiveness, and Sansa was giving him her answer.

That night, he didn’t hear the turn of the lock of the door as she entered his room. The mattress dipped when Petyr was hazily aware of the form the slid under the bedclothes. A cool hand caressed his chest just inside his nightshirt. It was a lovely dream, Petyr told himself. Ones he had so often alone at night. Many to the point of taking himself in his hand until a desperate and silent finish all the while imagining her with him.

That little hand slowly gathered the material until finding him soft with slumber. Gripping him firmly, that hand moved gently until he stirred and began to harden. The dream was lovely, indeed. It felt so real even when a tortured moan escaped his lips. The hand disappeared, and Petyr sighed, knowing how many times he woke with his cock erect and aching.

When the linen pulled back, and soft dove thighs straddled his hips, Petyr’s eyes opened with a start. If this was a dream, he never wanted to wake. Sansa sat atop him in her silken nightdress, her round belly prominent under the sheer material. He reached out and touched her, making sure she wasn’t some phantom in the night. They hadn’t made love since that day in his dressing room. One could hardly call it making love at all. It was raw, that passion and anger. He had been so rough with her, Petyr worried he might have damaged the delicate thing they made.

She moved against his aching hardness, forcing a deep groan from his lungs. His hands unconsciously gripped her bare thighs to keep himself from finishing quickly. Her weight lifted and then returned, sinking down on him. Petyr was speechless. She felt so good and yet he still wasn’t sure this was really happening. Sansa was silent in her movements. When he tried to pull her nightdress up, she pushed his hands away and finally spoke.

“No. I don’t want you to see me.”

“Why?” he wondered aloud.

Sansa didn’t stop her movements, bracing one hand on his chest. It was slow and controlled, and Petyr could feel her belly touch him each time she pushed herself down on where they were joined.

“I’m ugly,” she sighed and swatted his hand away for the second time.

A deep chuckle reverberated from his chest as his hands returned to her milky thighs.

“Sweetling,” he smiled in the darkness, trying to lean up only to be pushed down again. “Ugly is something you could never be even when we’re both old and wrinkled.”

“I’m fat,” she sniffled but didn’t stop moving. “You don’t desire me anymore.”

“Desire you?” he asked incredulously as his head hit the pillow. “You’re straddling me while I’m dying with lust for you. Or can’t you feel me inside you? You’re the one that locked me out of our room every night.”

“Because you’ve found a mistress in town, haven’t you?” she accused, and Petyr was shocked. Where was this coming from? Surely, he had attended to business matters around the county, but he could not even conceive of taking a mistress. He didn’t want any woman but her. Petyr was waiting patiently for Sansa to come back to him. She was the one keeping him at arm’s length. He thought he was being punished for those unfortunate revelations that day. Not as though he didn’t deserve it yet he was willing to wait all the same.

“Have you gone mad, woman?” he blinked and yelped when Sansa smacked his chest hard.

“Don’t you ever call me mad. Do you hear me?” she cried, thrusting down on Petyr’s cock so hard, it made him grunt. She was going to kill him; he swore under his breath. Sansa could kill him right now, and he wouldn’t care. She was riding him, and with each hard thrust, Petyr’s eyes rolled back. God, he loved her. Here she was, heavy with child and fucking him senseless.

Petyr bent his knees and reared up when he felt her tiring from the exertion. He gripped her fuller bottom and rather liked the extra padding there. He kneaded that tender flesh forcing her hips to the new pace he set now.

“Is this what happens to women’s minds when they’re pregnant? Clouding your reason?” he growled as he pumped into her. “Making you crazy about imaginary things?”

Sansa opened her mouth to retort before Petyr pushed himself up and kissed her roughly into silence.

“I didn’t call you _‘mad,’_ little witch,” he smirked, seeing her eyes flare a bit. “But if you think I’ve taken a mistress or could even desire another woman… then you’ve definitely lost your senses.”

Petyr took his free hand and touched her where they were joined. There it was, that sound he loved hearing. She moaned and held onto him. Petyr buried his face between her full breasts and could feel the beginning of the end. He wasn’t going to last much longer, for it had been too long since he had her like this. Sansa leaned back on her hands and let him take her hips, thrusting faster and faster. Her voice echoed in the darkness of the room as he felt her tighten around him. Just as quickly as it started, it was over as he spilled into his pregnant wife.

Drawing his head from her chest, Petyr kissed Sansa softly as she started to pull away. His spent cock fell from her when Sansa moved off him and off the bed.

“Where are you going?” Petyr asked curiously and grabbed her hand sharply.

“To bed. I’m tired.”

Petyr was genuinely beginning to wonder as to her mental state. He pulled Sansa back, careful not to make her stumble.

“I’ll be damned if you’re going to fuck me then leave to your own bed,” he chuckled.

Thankfully, she didn’t struggle or argue with him. Laying down on her side, Sansa fussed and moved around until finding a comfortable position on her side away from him. Petyr waited a moment or two and then tentatively closed the distance, molding himself into her backside. Only when his hand came to rest on her belly, did she protest weakly.

“Enough,” he groaned into her ear, his nose buried into the curve of her neck, kissing the skin there. “You’re beautiful, and I’ll always love you. Stop this nonsense.”

Petyr’s hand caressed the swelling abdomen of his beloved. It was the truth. Sansa was beautiful and he loved her to heaven and back. She filled his heart entirely and Petyr vaguely wondered how he could love anything more than her. It didn’t seem possible. Just then he felt a movement under his palm, and it almost made his heart stop. It was faint, a flutter, but he felt it. Petyr grinned like a fool against her skin. Her hand covered his gently and moved it a bit lower.

“Can you feel him?”

“ _Him?_ ” he smiled and kissed the back of her neck again. “It could be a girl.”

“No, it’s a boy,” she murmured. “Only a boy would give me such trouble.”

Petyr chuckled deeply and continued massaging her belly. “What can I do?”

Sansa sighed and leaned back into him. A little victory but Petyr would take it.

“Keep doing that. He likes it.”

Petyr wanted to chide Sansa that if she had allowed him back into her bed, perhaps the child wouldn’t have given her so much grief at night. He would have been happy to caress her all night if that’s the remedy she needed. Petyr didn’t want to anger her again or make her leave, so he stayed silent.

His little witch was here, and it felt as if she had never left him to sleep alone. They were made for each other. They needed each other, whether they wanted to admit it or not. Petyr was done second-guessing himself when it came to her. Sansa was never going to leave him, not if he could help it. Petyr would never keep her against her will, but he would find a way to make her stay. He couldn’t bear to part with her now – or ever.

He woke alone as the sun streamed in from the windows. Glancing at the mantel clock, Petyr cursed. He never slept so late. That was the effect she had on him. It had been the first night that he had slept well in months. William told him Sansa was already downstairs with the artist, making use of the good lighting.

When Petyr walked in, Sansa’s gaze turned from indifference to a sheer glow. Her blue eyes found him just off to the side – _and smiled_. That was the moment. The artist saw it and captured it with brilliance. Petyr stood in front of the masterpiece, and every time, even into old age, he would remember when her love returned in the way she looked at him at this moment.

She was staring at _him_ when those eyes lit up. It was a moment, frozen in time only between the two of them. Petyr wondered if, long after he was dead and gone, would people ponder what this beautiful girl was looking at when the artist caught it? Like the Mona Lisa, it was a mysterious smile and glance that seemed to find someone in the distance. It was him, and no one else would ever know. A little secret between the two lovers.

 

* * *

 

 

August flew by, and a charge was in the air. Not only was it a terribly humid and hot month, making Sansa miserable as she neared the end, but the harvest was beginning and demanded much of his attention. Anxiety wasn’t even the word for how Petyr felt. Every time he left the house, he prayed she wouldn’t go into labor until his return.

Most days Sansa rarely left her room, let alone the second floor. It was as if she had grown twice in size overnight. Petyr did not want her falling down the stairs in such a condition. The nursery had been finished to his satisfaction, as he began filling it with all sorts of lovely things for a child – his child.

He and the servants brought her anything she desired to occupy her time, but everyone knew the child could come at any time. Petyr bought and bought, and the shopkeepers were thrilled at the income from their new lord. He must have appeared every bit the new father. When attending business in town, he would always stop and buy something new to bring home to Sansa.

She said with all certainty that she would give him a son, but Petyr wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was his natural instinct to expect the unexpected in everything. In case his lovely wife was wrong, he would have little things tailored for a daughter too. Gentlemen of the county tipped their hat and asked how his wife faired. Had she given him a son or a daughter yet? Petyr would always reply with a smile… _soon. Any day now_.

Petyr didn’t know where this strange giddiness came from. He was not a fanciful man and even when he bought gifts for Sansa, it didn’t have quite _this_ effect on him. That hopeless romantic, the boy he thought died so many years ago – in fact, had not died at all. He lay dormant waiting for the right time or the right woman. Petyr never expected it to happen so late in his years. He was getting older and perhaps did not have that many years left in him to produce a child regardless of how young and healthy his wife was.

He remembered the snickers and empty platitudes of men when they found out he wed himself a young and beautiful girl. Bed her well, they chided. Get her with child soon. That a man of his age would have the benefits of such a lovely creature in his bed every night. Those men were green with envy, and Petyr felt it was just another dagger in their pompous hearts. He had it all. Wealth, power, land, title, and the most beautiful woman as a wife. The Stark name didn’t seem to matter when beauty and grace trumped the frumpy wives of those titled men. None of them would have married Sansa, but would have happily taken her as a mistress. No man would deserve her. She was his and Petyr was damned sure to keep it that way.

It was an unseasonably chilly evening when Sansa woke him with fear in her eyes. The moon was high in the dark sky as it's silver rays penetrated the sheer curtains.

“Do you wish me to fetch Mrs. Ames this time?” Petyr asked guardedly. She had many false warnings the past week, which made him alert to every move and change of breath.

“I don’t know. He is restless,” Sansa sighed, wincing in pain.

Sansa referred to their child as _he_ all the time now. She was convinced it was a boy she carried. Petyr wondered if Sansa would be disappointed if she gave birth to a daughter instead. All thoughts whisked from his mind when she groaned sitting up, and Petyr felt a wetness on the linens. Horror filled him as he quickly lit a candle and almost did not want to look, afraid to see blood, that something had gone wrong.

“Call for her, it’s starting,” she breathed and pushed the linens back. It wasn’t blood. It was the first sign that the child was coming and Petyr willed himself to stay calm.

 _Calm_ – dressing as quickly as he could.

 _Calm_ – he repeated it, rushing down the stairs.

 _Remain calm_.

Petyr knocked furiously on Mrs. Ames door to come quickly. The woman had been prepared for days and days. The necessary maids were woken while everyone moved with a purpose. Even though Sansa refused, Petyr had Brune at the ready to ride for the doctor if necessary. He wouldn’t take any chances with his child. He had not forgotten when he almost lost her that freezing winter’s night. The doctor had given up on her and didn’t expect her to live. Mrs. Ames never relented in bringing Sansa back to him.

Petyr wasn’t sure what his role should be right now. This was out of his control, and he hated every second of it. He had never been nervous in his life yet, he was ready to drink a barrel of whiskey to numb those irrational feelings. Petyr watched as the women worked furiously in the room. Sansa lay on her side, whimpering in pain. Every so often, her breathing would change or she would cry out.

Should he go to her or would he only be in the way? This was utterly new to Petyr.

She called out for him then, and Petyr didn’t hesitate. He sat next to her and whispered sweet nothings. A maid rang out a fresh cloth, handing it to him. Sansa was wet with perspiration. Gently, he wiped her forehead, letting the cool water run down her neck and chest.

The pain would come, and Sansa gripped his hand ferociously. She was crying now, and his heart bled for her. Petyr couldn’t imagine the pain she felt. Childbirth was as dangerous to a woman as anything else. She lay her head in his lap, and Petyr continued his ministrations – rubbing her back, taking the cloth to her skin. All the while, whispering in her ear.

“It will be over soon,” he smiled, trying to give her encouragement. “You’ll see. And will have a beautiful baby.”

Petyr didn’t know how many times he told Sansa he loved her. She was beside herself with emotion and distress. Mrs. Ames reached between Sansa’s legs often to check on progress. To Petyr’s analytical mind, it wasn't happening quick enough. He hated seeing Sansa in so much anguish. When she howled and clawed his arm to the point of drawing blood, Petyr’s heart halted when a red stain began to soak her nightdress.

“My lord, you need to move,” the old woman practically pushed him off the bed.

Mrs. Ames gave succinct directions when suddenly Petyr felt he was in their way. He moved back and almost couldn’t watch. The candles were smoking, the room was hot and humid with all the linens soaking in the bathroom, the scent of oils, medicines and the only sound was of his sweetling crying out – tearing his heart apart.

Petyr strode into his room and poured a stiff drink from the crystal decanter. He could still hear her cries in the next room, and the sound made him sick. Sansa wailed as if she were being torn apart. Perhaps he was a weak man after all. Petyr couldn’t watch it. It was too difficult to listen to it. His mind was his worst enemy playing all sorts of terrible images. William came in to check on him, probably at the old woman’s request. His hand holding the whiskey trembled. Petyr was scared, indeed, for the first time in his life.

A scream bled through the walls when he rushed back in, only to have two maids hold him back.

“Let me in, goddamnit!”

“William! Get him out of here,” Mrs. Ames yelled, and she didn’t once break her concentration from the girl on the bed, pushing with all her might.

“Shall I send for the doctor?” the young butler asked, holding his master back with all his strength.

“Not unless his lordship wishes worse for her and the child,” the woman smiled knowingly at the master of the house. “Don’t worry, my lord. They’re in good hands, I swear to you on my life.”

William hauled him back into his chambers when two footmen were called in and shut the adjoining door where her cries grew louder and louder. William whispered something, and one of the men left only to return minutes later with Brune following behind.

Petyr must have looked like a wreck sitting at the table by the way Brune looked at him with a smirk on his lips. The old friend poured a drink for both of them and sat down gesturing to the servants to leave them alone.

“What are you smiling at? Can’t you hear her?” Petyr grumbled and gulped down the fiery liquid.

“My hearing is just fine,” he sipped the whiskey watching Petyr intently. “Makes a man glad he isn’t a woman.”

He poured Petyr another drink.

“I have to say, this is a first,” Brune chuckled as Petyr scowled back at his old friend. “Never seen you quite like this before. It’s interesting to see how a man reacts to his first child being born. My father didn’t give a shit. He was out whoring when I was born – so my mother told me. Count yourself a better man, Petyr. I was there when my niece was born. My brother died in battle. Not a pretty sight, that was. The girl came too early. The doctor thought surely she would die…”

“And this is supposed to calm me down?” Petyr grumbled.

“Well, best be prepared for the worst, I say,” the man shrugged. Petyr couldn’t fault him. That’s the kind of man Brune was.

“Have any children yourself?” Petyr asked. He never thought to ask before.

“Oh, I’m sure a few bastards are around somewhere. I’ve had too many whores in my youth,” Brune smiled and tossed back the whiskey.

Another scream echoed and Petyr tried to stand when Brune’s heavy hand clamped down on his, pinning it to the table.

“It’ll do you no good to go in there, Petyr,” the man warned and Petyr knew he would hold him back against his will for his own good and reluctantly sat back down. “You’ll know soon enough, my friend. We’ve been through worse, and the worst is still to come.”

Petyr knew exactly what Brune meant, and it had nothing to do with the woman giving birth in the next room.

“Does she know?” his voice cut through Petyr’s frantic thoughts.

“She knows enough,” Petyr traced his finger around the rim of the glass.

“Do you trust her – _enough_?” the man weighed his words carefully.

“Yes.”

“And if it all goes to hell? What then? I thought you were mad to marry that Royce chit. At least you cared nothing for her,” Brune tapped his fingers lazily on the polished wood.

“What are you implying?” Petyr frowned. This was not the time nor place for this conversation.

“I see what I see,” Brune drummed his fingers, and the sound was irritating to Petyr. “You care for this one. Now you’ll have a child. You’ve never cared for a soul since I’ve known you. I’m just saying they could be a liability.”

“I am aware of that,” Petyr growled. “I have made plans for it. You needn’t concern yourself.”

“Considering I’ll be the one watching over them like a nursemaid, it is cause for concern,” Brune replied easily, not caring if his friend and co-conspirator was fuming angry. “You can’t exactly pretend the rest of the world isn’t turning while you play happy father and husband.”

“Most of the crates and weapons have already been moved. Not as quickly as I would have liked,” Petyr thought to the stash hidden in the labyrinth. “Everything is set and in motion. Nothing has changed. The king is clueless. Robert is under my control. I only need a few more years before lighting the match to the fuse. By then the crown will be bankrupt, and everyone else that matters will be dead.”

Brune raised a single eyebrow and half-smiled.

“ _Nothing_ has changed,” Petyr emphasized.

Brune stood and opened the door, “Bring him some strong coffee, my boy. He’s going to need it.”

Petyr didn’t know how much time had passed when William returned with a tray of fresh coffee and biscuits. It would be dawn in a few hours as the night dragged on like an eternity. The cries had long stopped, and all Petyr could do was pace his room that felt smaller and smaller as the minutes lagged on.

The door to her room opened when a maid with blood on her apron entered slowly. Petyr held his breath, taking Brune’s advice to heart.

 _Expect the worst_.

The blonde girl smiled, and Petyr’s heart soared to the heavens.

“M’lady is fine and the child too,” the girl fidgeted looking at the lord master. “Mrs. Ames just wants to clean up a bit and said you can come in – in a few minutes, m’lord.”

Petyr knew he could march in there right now, but the stronger part of him told him to wait. Perhaps Mrs. Ames and Sansa did not want him to see the remains of childbirth. Frankly, he did not need more terrible images to haunt his mind. Sansa and their baby were alright. That’s all that mattered. The maid closed the door before he could focus and ask about the sex of the child. Petyr could wait. He would rather hear from his wife.

A half-hour passed and Petyr grew restless, finally opening the door and entering her room, refusing to wait any longer. The maids were propping Sansa up with pillows as the most beautiful sound rang like music in his ears.

The wail of a baby, _his baby_ , sounded from the bathroom where Mrs. Ames came walking in wrapping the now clean infant in soft linen. Petyr looked to Sansa, who was exhausted, her eyes half lidden to the old housekeeper holding his firstborn.

“Your son, my lord,” Mrs. Ames smiled.

 _A son_.

Petyr’s heart constricted when Mrs. Ames gently placed the bundle, carefully swaddled, in his arms. He was so small, and Petyr cradled him safely. Immediately, the boy stopped crying as if he knew his father held him.

“He’s healthy then?” Petyr muttered, trying to think of anything to say for he was speechless at this moment.

“Yes,” Mrs. Ames grinned. “Gave his mother quite the exertion. I suspect he’ll be a strong one.”

Petyr frowned, gazing at Sansa. She looked half dead. Her face was so pale. The linens on the bed were fresh as fear seized him.

“Is she alright?” the concern lacing his voice as he walked to her side.

“She’ll be fine, my lord. No birth is the same. It was tough on her, but she’ll come around. Let her rest. She worked hard to bring your son into the world,” the woman eyed him with curiosity.

Petyr sat down and brushed the hair from Sansa’s forehead. She was warm, and her hair damp. They were alone at last with only the sounds of his newborn son making little noises. Petyr kissed her cheek and wondered if she fell asleep as her eyes were closed.

“He’s beautiful, Sansa,” he murmured.

Petyr opened the linen a bit as the infant wanted to move. His eyes were closed, and Petyr wanted to know what color they would be. Fine, silken black hairs ran along the top of his head. Little wrinkled arms stretched out, and when that tiny little hand clasped his finger, Petyr gulped and blinked back a tear that was threatening to fall.

This was his son. _His son_. Suddenly Brune’s words echoed in the back of his mind from earlier. No, they weren’t a liability, were they? Petyr left a tender kiss on top of his head. It was so soft, and he smelled of his mother.

“I told you it would be a boy,” her voice whispered.

Petyr grinned, catching her eye. Sansa was exhausted yet she smiled warmly all the same.

“I never doubted you,” he breathed. His sweetling was so very pale. “Are you sure you’re alright, my love? I can send for the doctor.”

She placed a hand on his and shook her head.

“No, I’ll be alright. Mrs. Ames is making a tonic for me. I bled quite a bit she said. She has everything under control. I trust her,” Sansa winced, trying to sit up a bit. “Here, let me hold him.”

Petyr placed the boy in her arms, observing her carefully, not fully believing her.

“Are you in much pain, sweetling?”

“Yes. No point in lying is there?” Sansa sighed, rocking their son gently. “I assume you’d rather not know the details.”

“If you wish to tell me, I will listen. I wanted to be in here with you. They forced me out – probably for the better. I would have been a bother. I can’t bear to see you in pain, sweetling,” he answered, kissing her cheek.

“I can’t believe my mother did this five times,” she chuckled dryly.

Petyr didn’t flinch at the mention of Catelyn, but more so the fear that Sansa may not wish to have more children. He did have a healthy son.

“If,” he hesitated and closed his eyes, “If you don’t wish to have more, I’ll understand.”

Sansa’s doe-like eyes looked up at him in confusion, and then his heart lifted when she smiled.

“I didn’t mean that,” she blushed. “Mrs. Cole use to say that women suffered from a terrible malady _. Forgetfulness_. Otherwise, we would never let our husbands ever bed us again. However, I’m cursed for my husband is an addicting lover as well.”

Petyr laughed and must have scared his son for he started crying loudly.

“Sssshhh. There, there,” Sansa grinned. “Your father will have to learn to be more quiet.”

 _Father_.

Petyr couldn’t get used to hearing it. Fathers weren’t men like him. Good fathers and husbands didn’t plot to bring down kings and torch the world.

“It’s a good thing you’re his mother,” he sighed, letting that trepidation show. “I don’t know the first thing about being a father. I didn’t exactly have any to learn from – in a good way.”

Sansa’s hand cupped his cheek, turning him to face her.

“You love us,” she smiled with tears in her eyes, that the sight broke him to his core. “That’s all I need to know. That’s who you really are. Everything else is just a façade. The sooner you strip that away, the better off we will be. Do what you have to do, Petyr. In the meantime, just be there for him. That’s all a child really wants, isn’t it? To be loved.”

Sansa didn’t know how true her words were to him. That’s all Petyr had wanted. Hoster Tully was the only father he really knew since fostering at Riverrun. Catelyn, Lysa, and Edmure were his siblings. They grew up together.

Had all things been created equal, he might not have been so hurt by Catelyn’s rejection. It was that he was nothing to them after all those years. Not a son, not a brother… not even a friend. He was just Petyr. A poor boy from the Fingers. Not worthy of anything good. Not worthy of love.

Yes, he loved Sansa. He loved his son, more than he could ever have expected. What he feared was a lie. His heart was big enough to house both Sansa and his child. The boy yawned, and Petyr couldn’t tear his eyes away. He would kill for him. Petyr would die for both of them. This newfound selflessness is exactly what Brune feared. It wasn’t going to take years to develop. In an instant, Petyr knew he would do anything and everything for them. _That_ made them a liability. Brune knew it, and now Petyr did too.

“You’re tired. Lie down,” Sansa breathed, kissing him softly.

Petyr did as she commanded without question. With help, she snuggled down with the boy between them. Sansa smiled as he grabbed her slender finger.

“What do you want to call him? We never really talked about it,” she yawned and winced in pain again.

Petyr tucked strands of hair behind her ear. He thought about it and knew exactly what his name should be.

“Alexander Faolan,” he grinned at her look of surprise that he chose a northern name.

“Faolan – _a wolf_ ,” she muttered with a hint of a smile.

Petyr kissed her deeply, careful not to crush his son between them.

“ _A great wolf_ , my little witch.”

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Daddy Petyr...that's all I'm saying. A bit more fluff before the game rears it's ugly head....too soon.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loooong chapter with a push in the timespan. A lot of exposition. 
> 
> So, I've kind of switched gears a bit instead. Yeah, there's a little fluff but not really fluff? We'll see what you guys think. And I decided to start fucking with you in this chapter instead of the next one. As I wrote it, it just seemed to fit better. I think I have one more semi-fluff/foreshadowing before it gets ugly in here. The supernatural features more here taking the story in a different direction. Lots of clues are dropped. 
> 
>  
> 
>  

 

[ ](https://postimages.org/)

 

 

 

 

 

Sansa closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath. Mornings in May couldn’t have been more beautiful at Harrenhal. The water lapped gently along the lake’s shore. Every flower was in bloom, and the trees were full of blossoms that danced on a honeysuckle breeze. Alex’s high pitched laughter made Sansa smile as she embroidered on the terrace.

Petyr was teaching him to ride on his black stallion not too far away. He had been so full of fear and apprehension about how to be a good father when their son was born. Sansa told him not to worry, and she was right in the end. Petyr was a natural father as he doted endlessly on his firstborn.

Glancing in the direction of the child’s laughter, it was hard to believe he was such a fussy baby. Petyr held the boy with one arm in front of him as he trotted the horse around the garden. Alex smiled and held onto the reigns without any fear of the enormous beast upon which he sat. He was growing so fast that it boggled his mother’s mind. It seemed only yesterday Petyr held him in his arms for the first time in the wee hours of early morning.

Mrs. Ames called it a tender tummy, and the doctor referred to this infant ailment as ‘colic.’ Alex cried endlessly for hours with Sansa unable to calm him. Sometimes he would refuse to feed from her breast, and there were many days and nights where she grew depressed and exhausted from the ordeal. The doctor tried several remedies and was going to resort to sedatives for the baby. The idea of giving such strong medicines to a little thing was unthinkable to Sansa and Mrs. Ames.

The old woman was a godsend once more. She crafted ointments to rub on his skin, made of calming herbs, and it helped greatly. However, it was Petyr that was the surprising factor. Sansa didn’t know what it was. A connection between father and son, a manner that her husband possessed, but something calmed the boy immediately. It was if his embrace was the remedy.

Alex would scream and cry, and those times when Petyr would take him, the boy quieted within minutes. Many times, Sansa would lay in bed and watch Petyr work his magic on the child. He would sit and rock the boy, humming a simple tune. The man that was in love with his son was a far cry from the man she met over six years ago. Petyr had changed dramatically as a husband and father. There were times when Sansa wondered if this part of him was just dying to come out. He had worn a mask so long, but Sansa wasn’t sure which was real. This loving man before her or the one that was the ultimate gambler in a game of politics and gold.

Had it been that long? There were moments when it felt like only yesterday when he changed her life in Riverrun. Sansa was the lady of a great house even if they were shunned by high society. She thrived here in the Riverlands. The locals respected her, treating her like the proper lady her mother brought her up to be. Petyr brought much prosperity to the county and the gold was rolling in for the crown.

Petyr told her as long as the king’s vaults were full, it was likely he wouldn’t care about them. They weren’t a threat, he insisted. Her husband was playing his part and rubbing two gold coins together to breed a third. Money tended to make men turn a blind eye. Petyr didn’t do anything that would raise suspicion. The lands were profitable than they had ever been, his ventures made many important men very rich. Who cared that this lord had his northern wife and son in the quiet of the country? They did not mingle within their circles and could be quickly dismissed as nothing.

It was easy to lose herself here. Sansa and Petyr made a few friends with local businessmen, gentry and their wives that wished to profit from the talented marquess. Petyr advised keeping such people, even as pleasant as some appeared to be, at arm’s length and never to confide in anyone. It wasn’t a difficult task, for the only person Sansa truly trusted was the old northern woman that helped her in every way. Mrs. Ames was always there for Sansa to vent her frustrations, cry, or talk about the things she still felt were not for Petyr’s overly logical ears.

_Logical and stubborn._

The day Alex was brought to the local parish for his baptism, Sansa was already filled with doubt. What kind of God let innocent children die before a firing squad, that she would baptize her son in His name? Petyr was no religious man, and the act was more of just that – a charade. A performance for the locals that he, the master of these lands was a good and faithful subject to the Almighty. That he would bring his firstborn son to town to be bathed in the light of God.

It was just another way to make them appear the respectable and trustworthy lord and lady of the county. They were, weren’t they? No one suspected that the marquess was plotting to bring down the royal family. No one needed to know that his northern wife was haunted by spirits and was scared to death of that unknown and what her husband’s game would bring.

Sansa forced a smile as the clergyman poured holy water on her son’s forehead until he cried loudly, his shrill voice echoing from the stone walls. Petyr plucked him from the man’s hold and just like that – Alex quieted once more.

Christened Lord Alexander Faolan Baelish, the clergy, and witnesses did not blink an eye at the northern name. Only then did Sansa genuinely smile as she gazed at Petyr and their infant son. Her son would inherit all from her and Petyr. She would teach him about his family from the north. He would know how they were honorable, loyal, and fought bravely to the end. Alexander would know how and why they died. The boy would learn from his father all the things he would need to understand to survive in this world. That sometimes you needed to play the part even if it was a lie.

As they walked outside, Sansa’s and Petyr’s attention was drawn to a gathering nearby in the town square. Small folk was gathered near the fountain surrounded by cobblestone as a man preached his sermon to the crowd. More and more ministers cropped up here and there over the past few years. Some taking a more modern approach to the Anglican Church that was doctrine across the country, and others moving back to the older, more conservative ways.

They took advantage of the turmoil building around the country as the arrogant, frivolous, and vicious king was slowly destroying his realm. Clerics came and went, some moving abroad to the colonies that were now a new nation of their own. The civil wars on the mainland had settled after so much bloodshed, and even the old Catholic traditions were being observed again.

Strange that so many off-shoots of the same belief system were now widespread in so many countries and growing. The late King Robert even passed The Act of Tolerance, which would give peace across the land, ending so many outbreaks of disobedience and crimes of hatred because one group of people practiced or prayed a little differently than the others.

Perhaps it was more because of his long friendship with her father and wanted to keep peace among the people no matter what they believed. It certainly didn’t stop Joffrey from taking retribution on those that prayed to the old Gods, those pagans that were hunted down and forced to accept the new religion. It seemed it was only if you prayed and practiced the new religion, where you allowed to do it your own way, in your own right.

Petyr was about to climb in the carriage when a local man distracted him. Sansa stood still listening to the parson across the square. He was old from what she could tell, but his voice and the way he preached sent chills down her spine. Religion had become popular again in the countryside among the smallfolk. Economic turmoil from King Robert’s reign had transferred to his son. Joffrey, a cruel and greedy boy, cared nothing for his lower subjects, and they suffered for it. Petyr knew this and Sansa had seen it firsthand since losing her family and becoming the lowest lady of the peerage.

The commoners were looking to God in their time of woes while the gentry and wealthy aristocracy used religion purely for political advantage, pragmatism, and academics. Then there were those like Petyr, who sneered and ridiculed such fanciful things. Praying to one God was just as preposterous as the numerous gods of old.

As prosperous as the Riverlands had become in the past few years, it seemed strangely odd that a new cleric would be preaching so harshly to the people. They hated the King, and that disquiet had been building since her father’s own failed rebellion. Even Petyr’s distaste for the aristocracy was so strong, he was going to overthrow Joffrey if he could. Petyr hated everything about the politics of the country. He was low born himself, and yet, this priest’s word did not have any effect on him.

Did men like this serve a purpose in keeping the people’s anger riled up? If Petyr were to depose Joffrey, he would want the people on his side. He would most likely use his low born status to rally them to him. Sansa did not know how Petyr was planning to bring the king down, but that feeling of dread was always present even in its tiniest form.

Petyr was true to his word on that part. He did keep Sansa informed – with the truth. Joffrey wasted money on the disastrous war to take back the colonies across the ocean, building new palaces and other extravagances, and the people suffered for it – all except in the Riverlands and the Vale.

That’s how savvy Petyr was. He kept those under his control out of danger. The rumor was the crown was going bankrupt and yet Petyr seemed to have an endless supply of gold and goods. He stored it, moved it, spent it when necessary but kept much of it quiet. He knew just when and how to buy, sell and provide but in ways that weren’t extravagant under the scrutiny of a king who was spending like a madman.

Petyr told Sansa, that the Lannister’s gold mine had dried up and that the king was unawares. He wanted the king to rely solely on him as much as possible and indeed that seemed to be playing into his hands. The aristocracy was still filthy rich, and so were their allies in the Church. That was what this man, dressed in a simple weave of the old Catholic monks, was preaching today.

“There are sinners among us. Yes, they are everywhere. We have forgotten God’s laws, bent and twisted by men, bought by those that keep you under their boot,” his voice rang out, and Sansa found herself walked toward the gathering.

“All immortal souls are equal in the eyes of our Lord,” the old man spoke fervently. “Our sins are alike. Those who hold your chains think they are above His law. Those masters have been cast out on the mainland and across the sea!”

A lady of the gentry scoffed and complained to her well-dressed husband as Sansa neared, “How vulgar! The nerve of that man! Comparing _us_ to the common folk.”

The woman said it loud enough that many peasants frowned and jeered, making her shrink back a little. Even though few of the gentry stood nearby, Sansa would have had enough sense not to say such a thing amongst so many commoners. One day the commoners would realize they outnumber the aristocracy just as they had across the sea.

Sansa heard from their wealthy ‘friends’ that men such as this were banned from pulpits in the larger towns and not allowed to preach at all in the capital. Terrible rumors from the north traveled down at how Ramsay Bolton, the new Duke of Winterfell was handling uprisings against his authority and that of the King. The north still very much believed and practiced the old ways, and it seemed the young duke was executing many defiant people. The Church never indeed took root up there, and it was being used more forcefully instead.

“I have seen it, my brothers and sisters. I have been to the west, the north, and now here. I see it in your eyes. Greed is a disease. Across the country, children go hungry, crops are dying, the pagans assault the righteous up north. What do these high and mighty lords do? They dine with gold and silver while you toil away on their lands,” he preached. “I used to serve them as you do now. I saw their sins every day as a servant in a great house. The debauchery, those gluttonous men rising high and taking everything they can, the whores dressed in fine clothing passing as ladies…”

It was then Sansa held her breath. Duncan stood on that ledge of the fountain overlooking the mass of people listening to him. The cross that dangled from his neck was simple and plain as his garb. He was the everyman, humble, and pious spouting his venom. He spoke for the common man, but that didn’t really bother Sansa. She knew what it was like to be low and shunned. She never wanted her people to suffer. She and Petyr made sure of it. Grain was available when it was scarce, and supplies brought in when needed. However, other people were suffering elsewhere in the country, those here were doing well and so was the Vale.

Sansa couldn’t have imagined this is what Duncan became after disappearing from Harrenhal that night. She remembered his many grumblings against her and Mrs. Ames, but one thing that stuck in her mind was that day in the garden.

_God puts His faithful servants where they are needed most… even to protect those who do not believe they need it._

“The true monarchy is gone. The lords and ladies that headed the great houses are long dead and replaced with pagan worshippers, men who laugh at God’s teachings and pray to gold. These lords over you have all but destroyed the faith and those that would preach its truth,” he roared as he scanned the crowd. Sansa froze as their eyes locked. The seconds ticked by like hours and the man’s suddenly smiled at her.

“You may have fruit now, but it will wither and die. Who will answer you when these lords of gold close their doors? They will, I promise you, they will. The true church has been snuffed out while those clergymen who drink from gold cups and wear fine silks reap the rewards of their high masters. True men of God do not suffer these things. For hundreds of years, the people only needed and respected the word of God and did not use it to push down the faithful. Men’s laws will never supersede God’s laws, and it is times like these that we must return to the fold, denounce these sinners – those that will eat cake while you starve for a crust of bread,” he bellowed and not once did his gaze leave Sansa. It rooted her to the spot.

“We did not suffer pagans and non-believers. We pushed them north where they belong,” Duncan grinned. “Don’t despair my children. There are good men and women of title. Those that punish evil-doers. Great ladies that spread God’s will by gentle teachings to those who would follow and His wrath to those that oppose His word.”

“What is this? I wondered where you disappeared to. You’re not listening to this rubbish are you?” an amused voice japed behind her.

Sansa turned as the smile fell from Petyr’s face.

“That son of a bitch,” he growled holding their son. His eyes were sharp daggers on the former butler spewing from his fountain pedestal. Petyr signaled, and Sansa saw Brune and two men move into the crowd.

“Petyr, _no_ ,” she pleaded suddenly and clutched his forearm. “Don’t be a fool. There are too many people.”

“I told you I would kill him if I ever found him,” Petyr scowled and held Alex to him tighter. “Lest you have forgotten what he did to you.”

Sansa glanced around them in terror. Petyr’s men were moving closer.

“I haven’t forgotten,” she whispered harshly. “You can’t kill a priest in front of everyone!”

“I don’t care what he pretends to be… You almost died because of him!”

“Petyr!” she breathed and forced him to look at her. “Not in front of these people for heaven’s sake. I don’t care what he did to me. They see a man of God. If you, the man he is preaching against, kills him… what does that tell the people you are trying to gain favor? You’re smarter than this.”

Petyr took a few ragged breaths and after several tense moments, signaled again to Brune as the men retreated back into the back of the crowd. Duncan continued on, and it was all Sansa could do to calm her raging husband. She had never known Petyr to be irrationally impulsive. She should be flattered by his need to take revenge on the man, but it did not comfort her.

“Brune will find him and when he is alone…”

Sansa’s mind tumbled and turned the idea over. She hated Duncan, that was for sure. She wanted revenge as much as Petyr, or did she? Sansa looked at Alex tucked away in Petyr’s arms and stilled. They were not murderers. They were better than that. How could she teach her son to be a good man when his father killed out of spite? They would be no better than this old butler spouting hate and fear.

 _Let him_ , she decided.

“No,” she said calmly and stared Petyr in the face. “You will do nothing of the sort.”

Petyr blinked at her as if she had gone mad.

“Sansa, he left you for dead, he may have done Myranda’s bidding,” he breathed.

“And what does that make us if we kill him? Duncan is a grumbling, pious old chamber pot,” echoing Mrs. Ames words form long ago. “ _Listen to him_. He sounds like every other fanatical minister to come through these parts. No one will take him seriously. Yet if he dies suspiciously, and he was known to speak out against you or I… People _will_ take his words sincerely.”

Petyr was still frowning, but the logic didn’t go unwarranted. He knew she was right but was not happy about it. Shaking his head in anger, he refused to look at his wife. She knew he wanted revenge badly and Sansa might never know if he decided to do it, against her wishes and hide the evidence.

“We don’t want to bring any unnecessary attention to ourselves, right? Not when we’re so close?” she pleaded to his reason. “Let him grouse and belittle us. The people know better. We take care of them as we have these past few years. The ton already thinks we’re beneath them. What? They have new gossip if it even travels that far? He isn’t saying anything new. I’m the northern whore and you the sinner with pockets of gold.”

“He doesn’t deserve to live,” Petyr growled under his breath. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgiven his crime against you.”

Sansa glanced back at Duncan and couldn’t find the fury she once had for him. He was a sad, pathetic, bigoted and angry old man. He had nothing but his hate to fuel him. Was revenge on him for living worth the ordeal of killing him? Duncan was staring at both of them even now. He was trying to goad them, and Sansa would be damned if she gave the man the satisfaction.

“It’s not forgiveness but a release. It’s letting the past go. Not letting it hurt me any longer,” Sansa sighed. “If I let you kill him, it will stay with me forever. What will your son think of you? You’re not a murderer, Petyr,” she scolded gently and took Alex back into her arms. “You did save me from those men in woods, but I refuse to believe you would kill a man out of pure revenge after so many years. He left me there, yes. I might have died, but you came for me. I had nothing to live for except you. In a strange twist of fate, he may have brought us closer together. I was already dying before he found me. I chose to go into that labyrinth. Maybe I wanted to die a little because my heart was so broken. No one could have saved me, but you.”

Sansa stood tall and faced the man. No, Duncan couldn’t hurt her anymore. He didn’t matter anymore. Nothing this man said would make her feel less than the woman and mother she was. Shaking her head with a smirk, Sansa turned on her heel and walked back the carriage.

_I am better than this. I will prove it to my child right now. I will prove it to everyone here._

“There they go, sinners with their innocent and damned child – who won’t understand until it’s too late that his mother is a whore and a northern pagan. You cannot fool us, girl. You might be able to buy blessings from corrupted parishes, but God sees what you do. You cannot hide behind Harrenhal’s walls… nor can you _Lord_ Baelish. You worship a God of gold and will burn in hell with your traitorous, whoring wife.”

Sansa turned and watched Petyr. His scowl transformed into his mocking smirk and tipped his hat to his former majordomo.

“At least my God pays better. I don’t remember you protesting so much under my roof, Your Holiness,” he japed to the eruption of laughter within the crowd. “Such eloquent pontification from a humble and devout man of our Lord’s teachings. Such a miraculous transformation from the man that happily tormented young maids into tears. One that seemed overly thrilled to serve those wealthy and miserly lords before me – who let their people starve. The man that not only threatened my wife on many occasions but also left her for dead in the snow. I must admit, as I am the heathen you say, that such actions are far from saintly.”

“God doesn’t fill the stomachs of the hungry, God doesn’t seed the land that cares for so many. Where was God before my sinful gold? I can hardly say I’ve hoarded it for myself. Look around you, you should have chosen the capital, where I guarantee the people _are_ suffering. Or perhaps head north. I hear they are having a dreadful time up there. You did say you were honored to work for a great house. The Duke and Duchess of Winterfell are proving their greatness, so it seems.”

“Their God isn’t providing for the starving, homeless, and those tortured into submission. Perhaps yours will be more successful. Here in the Riverlands, the best we can expect from the Almighty is rain and fair weather from time to time.” The laughter flittered in and around the locals and Sansa couldn’t help but smile as her husband tossed Duncan’s war or words right back at him. “But by all means, continue with your rehearsed objections to what our Lord and Savior might say is a blessing to fortunate here. Good day to you, Duncan.”

Petyr tipped his hat again, ending the bloodless battle as he returned to her side. The old man stood speechless at the exchange while Sansa couldn’t care less at anything else the man spouted from his black lungs. Men like him were why Sansa never cared much for the new religion her mother insisted upon.

Some of the teachings were good and righteous, but it was nothing different than the teachings of the old gods. The _pagan gods_ , the people feared so. Love was the key. Be good to others. Don’t take what isn’t yours. Don’t covet, murder, dishonor… all those things that were praised as the ultimate teachings of God. If one read thoroughly enough, you found horrible things said and done in the name of God. How was any of that justified? The stoning of women, slaves, sacrifice...

Perhaps Sansa was more like Petyr than she realized. Unlike her mother, she would not force her children to learn or raise them by such a doctrine. Sansa hated it as a child and Petyr was obviously not a true believer, so why would either of them subject their children to it? She would teach them love, respect, and morals; she believed everyone should follow. However, this world was full of the unexplained, and the new sciences were discovering things every day. When the time came, Sansa would let her children decide for themselves. In the end, she may indeed go to Hell, for her husband would most likely be there as well, but that fire and brimstone was not what she feared. The evils of man scared her more than the devil. Sansa had been witness to it her whole life. The well-being of those she loved was all the mattered.

Vaguely, Sansa wondered if having a child would change Myranda. Petyr told her the news from the north was that she was with child. Alex changed Sansa and Petyr, whether it was for better or worse, Sansa really couldn’t say. She discovered how impatient she could be as the years passed by.

Alex was a handful and more trouble than her little brothers combined. When Petyr was away, he could be a holy terror. The boy would refuse to mind his mother, to doing things he wasn’t allowed knowing he would be in trouble. Petyr would come home, and he never understood why Sansa complained. Alex was a perfect angel for his father. Whatever natural duplicity his father possessed, the child inherited. He wasn’t terrible like young Robert by any means, and the staff seemed to adore him. No, the conclusion Sansa came to was that Alex just knew how to alienate his mother. Careful observation of the boy’s interaction with others proved it was not like it was with her.

Alex bonded more with Petyr than her and Sansa couldn’t deny that she felt strange jealousy in that yet it also gave her terrible guilt. Petyr loved his son, that much was obvious. She should be elated at her husband’s happiness. If Alex fell or was upset, he ran to his father first. If Petyr were away on business, his son would be sulky.

It wasn’t as if the boy disliked his mother. There were so many little memories she loved that were of only her and her child. He would crawl into her bed some nights, and their favorite game was that of _hide and seek_. The boy would squeal in delight when Sansa caught him. All too soon his explorative way became a hazard in such a grand house that Lady acted as one part nursemaid and guardian to her new pup, following the boy everywhere.

Unlike his father, Alex had no real interest in music or art. He was fascinated with everything in Petyr’s office, or he wished to be outside. He was an intelligent boy from the start, that was clear enough. Alex inherited his father’s brilliance for numbers. He was a quick study and enjoyed building blocks and spent so much time with the globe in Petyr’s study, Sansa wouldn’t have been surprised if he learned to read by the age of five.

He was an independent child and did not care for that of a coddling mother. His head was a mess of dark curls that refused to behave. The more Sansa fussed with it, the crankier the child became so she let it stay wild. Watching him as he played, Sansa wondered if this is what Petyr must have looked like. He kept his hair short, but when it grew too long, those curls were defiant. Alex was so much like his father it was almost scary. His sixth birthday on the cusp, but the boy was older than his years. He was well-spoken, courteous, and fiercely intelligent at such a young age. Sansa thought back to her own brothers at that age. They were instructed in politeness, and by all means, none of them were stupid, but Alex seemed to have a strange maturity about him.

 _He is his father’s son_.

The smile on her husband’s face warmed her heart. Petyr was a different man with her and Alex. She knew of the business he conducted and what lay ahead yet when Petyr was home, he devoted the most of his time to them.

Alex had been a difficult birth and took a toll on her body. Mrs. Ames recommended that she be careful about conceiving again too soon. Sansa needed time to heal, and Petyr was more than patient. There was more than one way to make love she discovered that didn’t involve him being inside her. Where Petyr learned these pleasurable little talents, Sansa never wanted to know.

Time passes too quickly when one is happy and content, Sansa mused. Before she knew it, Alex was walking instead of crawling. He was forming sentences instead of simple words. After a couple of years, Sansa started to despair when, after many lovely attempts, she couldn’t conceive and it wasn’t the lack of her husband in her bed.

She loved Alex with all her might, but she wanted what Mrs. Ames said would be. Sansa wanted another child. How many years was she to wait for that blissful moment again? Alex was every bit Petyr’s son, and there were times when that knowledge hurt. Was Sansa so terrible that she wanted another child to love as well? Perhaps one that would come to her first, be more like her?

These were the thoughts that made Sansa cry in silence. She felt awful to have such feelings but at the same time loved her husband and son unconditionally. Only Mrs. Ames seemed to understand, and Sansa could never tell Petyr these deep and darkly kept contemplations. She was a horrible mother, she lamented to the old housekeeper. The woman smiled and patted her hand and continually told Sansa to be patient. A child would come again when she was ready – when the time was right.

Unfortunately, those feelings weren’t the only thing she spoke to Mrs. Ames about. The voices and ghostly happenings had all but disappeared until one early morning. Sansa was rocking her son after he awoke from a night terror while Petyr snored softly on the bed. From some reason, if Alex ever woke from a bad dream, it was his mother he desperately wanted. She hummed a sweet tune and her son was almost asleep, one of the rare moments when it was her and him.

“ _Is buachaill é_ _–_ it’s a boy _–_ ,” the girlish voice said.

The air surrounding Sansa seemed to frost over. _She was here_. She hadn’t left after all. Lady perked her ears up and whimpered a bit. That was all Sansa needed to confirm her fears. Closing her eyes, she willed it to go away. The little spirit had fallen silent since that fateful day in the labyrinth. The spring following Alex’s birth, Petyr had the giant maze burnt to the ground. It was a hazard she told him. Sansa had such terrors that their children would play or explore in those hedges if given the opportunity. Her siblings were willful to a fault, and Sansa knew her children with Petyr would be the same if not more so. Such nightmares she had of a child falling down, down, down into the abyss. Petyr never questioned it, and in turn, had the Mad King’s torture chamber leveled with any and all oubliettes filled with earth.

“ _You don’t talk to me anymore_ ,” the voice sighed in anguish. “ _Are you angry with me? I only wish to help you_.”

Sansa glanced to Petyr’s sleeping form. Should she wake him?

“ _You wanted a girl_ ,” it said dreamily, but it was anything but pleasant. The breath was cold on the back of her neck. Sansa sat, frozen in fear holding Alex firmly into her breast. Why had it come back after so long?

 _Go away_ , she willed silently in her mind. _Please leave me alone_.

Sansa knew her first child would be a boy. She knew it in her heart and soul. Petyr teased her, although it wasn’t cruelly meant, she couldn’t explain how she knew. Had a girl been born to her that night, Sansa would have been genuinely surprised. Everything in her being said she would bring a son into the world.

“Petyr, wake up,” Sansa’s voice squeaked, but he didn’t hear her.

“ _He will never understand until the hand bleeds, and the bark heeds the burn_ ,” that little voice echoed in Sansa’s head. “ _He will never leave. The old man grows young. The two… are one_.”

Sansa shivered all over but neither the boy at her breast nor the husband in her bed stirred at the voice and chill in the air. Lady growled and started pacing the room. What kind of terrible riddle was this? This thing had been friendly and warned her before, even predicted things that had come to pass. She learnt of Petyr because of this little spirit, it had protected her and Lady in the woods, it told her about the music box, and yet it wanted desperately for her to follow it into that Other World. Now, years later, not only was it speaking to her in the presence of Petyr, who adamantly did not believe in such things, but throwing about some cryptic riddle.

“ _Her name is carved in music_ ,” it sang sweetly and dread-filled Sansa completely. “ _It waits in its dusty tomb, hidden from time. Only then will the truth you find._ ”

After that night, the girl didn’t return while Sansa debated on whether talking to Mrs. Ames about it. What did it all mean? She found the music box Petyr made for her mother. Her name was carved in the bottom, and Sansa shattered it. Just like the spirit said needed to happen.

It wanted her to listen, and Sansa refused to converse with it. Was her young child in danger? Or could it be Petyr? Sansa knew he was growing ever closer to ending this game, but a nagging feeling couldn’t be contained. What if everything he was doing was wrong? Joffrey and his family were miserable people and did not deserve to live, but what if Petyr’s plans did not work the way he intended? She couldn’t very well tell him to stop because a spirit told her to. Mrs. Ames said they were nothing but trouble and never to accept their help.

It troubled her endlessly, and Sansa worried every time Petyr left. It didn’t matter if it was to town, to meet his merchants, to the capital and the few times he went abroad to the mainland. He always came back unharmed, and everything seemed to be working in his favor.

They were happy. Alex was healthy and robust. It just seemed like something was waiting in the midst, and Sansa couldn’t put her finger on it. Petyr would think her mad if she told him not to go because a faerie was warning her with riddles. It very well could be about someone else or anything else. It could be a trick, some terrible ruse.

The weeks flew by, and the girl never spoke again. Sansa began to believe that ignoring it was the best option. Perhaps it was only trying to get the best of her, to scare her into believing its lies. Petyr was fine. They were entirely ignored by the king and his fashionable minions at court. Alex would turn six soon, and life at Harrenhal was blissfully quiet and content.

Perhaps it was all in her head. The nightmares had stopped once Sansa gave birth. They were always the same dream – the little girl and the gravestones. Over and over Sansa dreamt it. The girl telling her she didn’t belong here. Maybe those dreams were manifestations from the spirit too. Trying to spin her mind like a top.

The dreams all but stopped with Alexander. Now, the girl returned to frighten Sansa with riddles. Weeks later, all was quiet and good, yet it didn’t stop it from filling her troubled mind from time to time. Even watching her son ride around with Petyr couldn’t quell those demon thoughts from breaking through on a day such as this.

Her embroidery forgotten, Sansa stared off into the distance where the labyrinth once stood. A barren and burnt graveyard of the once majestic hedges. The fire had lit up the sky for days as it burned. Somewhere in there could have been her tomb if she had given up, or if Petyr had given up on her. The spirit had been wrong. He did come for her, and now Sansa was a mother to a beautiful boy.

“Mummy! You’re not watching!” Alex bellowed.

Sansa blinked and quickly smiled, finding her son on the horse as Petyr held the reigns.

“I’m sorry, my love. I was daydreaming. You look very dashing. Like a storybook knight,” she beamed even though Sansa did not like him sitting alone on the horse. Petyr’s stallion was gentle as her mare, but Alex was still so small. She took a deep breath and kept the smile on her face despite her reservations. She would have a talk with Petyr later, in private.

“Papa said he’s going to get me a horse of my own!” the boy exclaimed with glee.

“Perhaps, you should start with a pony first? You’re not even six years…”

“No, Papa said so. I don’t want a pony,” Alex shot back defiantly and Sansa frowned at Petyr. He at least had the decency to wipe that smirk off his face.

“ _Alexander_ ,” Petyr’s voice dropped in a warning. “You don’t speak to your mother like that.”

The boy pouted for a moment at his father’s reprimand. “Sorry, Mummy.”

“I know you want one, but you’re not big enough yet for a full-grown horse, darling,” Sansa smiled sweetly at her crestfallen son and then sighed. “Your father and I will discuss it.”

The boy’s head shot up so fast, Sansa thought he might fall off the animal. Petyr lifted him down as Alex ran to his mother, knocking her embroidery to the carved stone terrace. He hugged her around the waist fiercely before running into the house, yelling, “William! Mummy said I can have a horse for my birthday!”

Sansa picked up her embroidery and frowned at her husband, who handed the reins to a stable boy. Tucking his hands behind his back, he casually strolled up the steps and stood before her with one of his most winning smiles. Sansa tried to keep her scowl, for why shouldn’t she be angry with him? He knew damn well she was right.

Petyr leaned in for a kiss when she turned, and it glanced her cheek.

“Are you terribly sore at me?” he hummed and leaned in a little further. His breath was warm on Sansa’s neck. “I forget children aren’t the best at keeping secrets.”

“Keeping secrets from me with our son, are you? Really, Petyr? A Horse? You know he isn’t old eno – “

Petyr cut her off with a searing kiss. He had grown a moustache, and it tickled. Their son forgotten for a heartbeat, Sansa opened her mouth to him.

“Mmmm, I have a mind to take you right here in broad daylight,” he sighed, kissing her deeply.

“You are a scoundrel, and I never should have married you,” Sansa retorted sarcastically, letting him pull her into his arms.

“Darling, I haven’t been a scoundrel in years. I’m a reformed man, haven’t you heard?” he teased. “You have become a saint!”

Sansa slapped him on the chest, making him grunt a slightly and pushing away a bit.

“You were downright scandalous last night. What if Alex had heard? Walked in?” she admonished him.

“I locked the doors,” he chuckled, trying to retake her waist. “His constant roaming is rather… unfortunate. I told you we would be regulated to the bedroom after having children.”

Petyr didn’t realize it, but it made her heart sink at that one word. _Children_. They only had one child, and Sansa was beginning to believe that Mrs. Ames was wrong after all.

“Oh Sweetling,” he purred, taking her in his arms at once at his words. Petyr knew her so well. “Maybe I’m to blame. I’m not a young man anymore.”

Petyr wasn’t wrong. Having Alex seemed to age him a bit. Threads of silver laced his moustache and even more grew along his temples. Six years had taken a toll. Sansa wasn’t sure, but perhaps it was the added stress of her and Alex to worry about.

“Do you ever regret it?” his voice cut through her thoughts sharply. “You could have had a younger man. Handsome and full of vigor. One that didn’t harbor the threat of danger to you.”

Petyr’s voice was solemn with a touch of fear. How often did he wonder about such things?

“ _No_ ,” she expressed strongly and held him tighter. “I regret _nothing_. I don’t like hearing you talk this way.”

“I’m sorry, sweetling,” he sighed. “Sometimes I can’t help but ponder if I’ve made you happy. Alexander can be troublesome, I know. It’s just that I see a sadness in your eyes at times, and I wonder…”

“I do want another child,” she breathed and pulled away just enough to see his face. “It’s just – you’re away so much lately. Are we boring you? You’re not exactly a provincial life kind of man.”

“We’re almost there, Sansa,” he smiled. “After Alex’s birthday, we head to the Vale. I can almost taste it. It’s _that_ close. I know I’ve been absent somewhat these days, but it’s not because I want to be away from you. When this is all over, I never want to be more than this far away from you.”

Petyr kept his hands on her waist, conveying his meaning. Was it really coming to an end so soon? He hadn’t mentioned much until now. Myranda had twin boys, and the north was worse than ever. Ramsay truly surpassed his father’s reputation for cruelty. Petyr had more control, and Joffrey was despised and would soon be bankrupt. The king would have no money to wage war.

“Be patient with me, my love. Just a little longer, then everything will be ours for the taking. We can go anywhere we wish, do anything we wish. I’ll send Alex to the finest schools. Just a little more time. Give me that,” Petyr pleaded softly.

Sansa smiled and nodded in agreement, taking his hands. She picked a blossom that landed on his head and laughed.

“So what have you planned for your son’s birthday?” she grinned and walked with him along the terrace. “If I see a horse, I’m going to kill you in front of all our guests.”

Petyr howled with laughter and took her arm in his.

“It’s _months_ away, my darling. I haven’t given it any thought.”

“Of _course_ , you haven’t. Except your son spoiled that ruse only moments ago,” she smiled. “If you keep indulging him like this, he’ll turn out as bad as Robert.”

“Hush your mouth, little witch. I’m already dreading the day they meet,” he chided gently.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” she retorted.

“Yes, I know, my love. I know,” Petyr sighed a bit. Sansa knew he loved doting on Alex. Why shouldn’t he, it was his only son. “I will abide to be more studious of such things.”

 

* * *

 

 

That afternoon, Alex blissfully played for hours in his nursery that Petyr always filled with new toys. The boy’s latest obsession was geographical maps, and gratefully it kept him occupied and left the downstairs peacefully quiet.

Petyr read by the window and Sansa was able to have the afternoon to paint. Most of the time, Alex wouldn’t allow her the time to do so. She had a vision of the spring garden from this morning, but after continually glancing at her husband, she began to sketch his relaxed form sitting in the chair.

He had a striking profile with that straight nose. Petyr’s lips pursed every so often at what he was reading. Those dark curls were a bit messy on the top of his head from riding this morning as he didn’t care to fix it.

Petyr was, if anything, an elegant man. His beautiful hands and the angle he held the book. The contrast between his dark hair and pale skin. Eyes deep in thought, and the afternoon sun streaming in caught the flecks of green instead of the grey that was surrounded by dark lashes. He didn’t believe so, but Petyr was an attractive man. Not in the way that young girls would swoon over handsome fellows like Harrold, but everything about him was mysterious, beautiful, and _dangerous_. Yes, that was it. Petyr wasn’t necessarily handsome, no, he was _beautiful_.

Sansa captured everything she could while the light was good and committed the rest to memory. She knew every angle, curve, strand of silver, and the glint of gold on his finger… she would finish it when Petyr was away on business knowing he would scrutinize every little brush stroke or even refuse to let her paint him in any fashion. Sansa was still annoyed that he didn’t join her in the portrait hanging in the grand foyer. She had sketched him a dozen times and hidden the charcoal drawings away, but this time she loved the way he looked in this moment and decided to paint him. It would be finished before he could object.

That night when the day’s events exhausted Alex, and he was fast asleep, Sansa changed for bed wearing her thin silk nightdress. It was a warm evening, and all the windows were open, letting the southern breeze flow. She brushed her hair, letting it fall down in long waves.

“Dear God, you’re beautiful,” his voice breathed in admiration behind her.

A deep blush graced her cheeks as she saw his reflection in the mirror. He was still dressed in his shirt sleeves and trousers while leaning against the door frame.

“Are you exhausted this evening, my lady?” he grinned mischievously.

“Not especially, my lord,” she smiled back through the mirror.

Petyr stretched out his hand from where he was standing.

“Come with me.”

Following him into his bedroom, Sansa figured he wanted to make love in his bed tonight. She wasn’t complaining. When he pulled her into his dressing room, Sansa wasn’t sure what he had in store for her tonight. Petyr opened a panel in the wall and lit a candle.

“After you, little witch.”

Sansa gave him a confused look when he gestured to the passageway. Stepping inside the dark space, the long corridor stretched out before her. They had used this passageway many times to avoid the servants. No more ghostly pianist in the middle of the night. It was dank and a bit hot when she heard the door click. His candle illuminated the narrow path as she followed him.

Creaking wooden stairs wound down and around, while Sansa lifted her skirts as to not snag or trip. This passageway always twisted and turned until Sansa saw the locked oak door on the right and knew where she was. Sansa grinned wickedly when the air turned damp and hot. She loved it when they came down here.

The torches lit, the cavern flickered with their shadows. The steam billowed, and it was almost too much. Petyr removed his shirt and trousers before coming to stand before her. It had been months since they came down here. After Alex was born, it became one of Sansa favorite pastimes. She would soak her frustrations away, helping her to sleep through the night. Sometimes they would make love, and others were just to relax in their little secret hideaway.

Petyr lifted her gown over her head and draped it over the broken column as they always did. Taking her hand, he guided her down until the water engulfed them. Petyr occasionally complained of his aches and pains, such things that came with age but he still didn’t look it other than a few wrinkles and the greying hair. He was a little fuller around the middle but not much. It came and went depending on what he was doing. Petyr gained a little after she gave birth, but Sansa thought it was because they weren’t ‘ _at it like rabbits’_ as he called it, regularly. The meals at Harrenhal were difficult not to devour. Petyr constantly bickered about how horrible the food was when he traveled and couldn’t wait to come home to delicious suppers every day.

Years ago, Petyr brought down a smooth wooden bench that was far more comfortable than the stone ledge they usually sat on. Leaning against the stone, Petyr pulled Sansa against his chest and between his legs. Often they did this in the bath when coming down here wasn’t possible. The hot water was just what Sansa needed as she relaxed against him.

“Sometimes I wish we could disappear down here forever,” Sansa mused and felt his chest chuckle.

“And slowly boil ourselves to death? We’d be a quite the meal for the spiders and rats.”

Petyr’s hand caressed her tummy before dipping to explore her curls. Sansa never tired of the way he could touch her so briefly to enflame that lust.

“There are no rats down here. I’ve never seen a single one. Unless they’re all behind that door, you won’t open,” Sansa sighed as he toyed with her. One thing Petyr still had not shown her was the two padlocked oak doors.

“I don’t make a habit of bringing the key. Why you want to see the torture chamber? Have plans to put me in the iron maiden when we have a quarrel?” he teased.

“Why not just take it all out? Rather morbid to keep it, don’t you think? I hate that it’s connected to this room by that door,” she shuddered.

“The very idea scares the servants. Let it be, it’s not as though we will ever use it. I should just brick up both doors,” Petyr huffed but continued to play between her thighs.

“Have _you_ ever used it?”

Sansa meant it as a joke but regretted it the moment his hand stopped, and Petyr turned her to look at him.

“What kind of man do you take me for? Do you really think I could do that to someone?” he spat angrily.

“Petyr, I’m sorry. I was only japing. Of course, you couldn’t. You’re not like that, I know,” the words rushed out of her mouth to placate him. “I don’t know why I said that. Please, forgive me.”

He frowned at her and Sansa regretted her rash words terribly.

“Do you still think I killed Duncan?” he finally asked.

“What? No!” Sansa replied. What made him think of Duncan after all this time? Sansa made the mistake years ago asking whatever happened to him since he disappeared from the county weeks after that day in the town square.

“Or maybe I brought him down here and had my revenge, is that it?” he fumed.

“What’s gotten into you? No. Of course not. I trust you,” she pleaded.

“Do you?” he smirked.

Sansa turned around and straddled his waist, placing her hot hands on his face.

“ _Yes_ ,” she said firmly. “I trust you with my life. Our son’s life. Good God, Petyr. I’m sorry for what I said. I love you. I will believe what you tell me. I would die for you and Alex.”

Petyr sighed and lowered his forehead to Sansa’s chest.

“I’m sorry. I over-reacted. I don’t want you to ever think of me as a monster. I want to be the man you need. That’s good enough for you.”

Where was all of this coming from today, she wondered. Petyr had nothing to prove to her. He was a loving husband and father. A woman could be so lucky.

“Why would you think that? After all these years, and what we’ve been through?” Sansa tilted his chin up, kissing him softly. “There is no man I want but you. Only you will father my children. No matter what happens, I will love and trust you. I will wait for you forever in this life or the next.”

Petyr yanked her to him and kissed Sansa deeply. She opened her legs a bit wider and rocked against him, forcing a groan from his lungs. Petyr worried so much about his age, but she could get him aroused without any trouble. It didn’t take any time at all for Petyr was grabbing her backside, wanting more.

She moaned loudly sinking down on him. The hot water, the slickness of their skin, it was ripe for sex. Usually, Petyr enjoyed taking control, but she wasn’t going to let him tonight. Sansa felt a need to show him how much she wanted him. Planting her feet on the pool’s floor, she rose up and down a few times slowly. Petyr was straddling the narrow width of the bench when she pushed his back against the wall to brace herself.

Without warning, she thrust down hard, her legs taking all of her weight. Sansa never told him, and it took a long while to admit to herself – but she loved it when he fucked her in his dressing that day she broke the music box. He knew how to please her. Even having his mouth make her come was new and exciting. When they argued, more times than not, they ended up apologizing to each other in bed. Not before a few bites and rough playfulness.

Duncan made accusations of debauchery, and he couldn’t have been more right. Sansa followed Petyr into the depths of depravity. She couldn’t count how many different and delicious ways they had each other. Sansa shyly thought that a mother shouldn’t enjoy such acts. She was the lady of the house, her son’s rooms nearby, and yet she was enjoying being fucked senseless into the wee hours of the night.

The hot water lapped around them as Sansa thrust hard and fast. Her full breasts bobbed and pressed against him. Petyr’s hands were insistent on her bum, begging for release. This was about his pleasure right now, and Sansa was working hard to bring it about. His change in breathing, the tensing of his shoulders, and the slight furrow of his forehead told her he was so very close. Petyr bucked up a few times and finished with a deep moan.

Petyr slipped out while his seed washed away, Sansa had not come at all, but she didn’t mind. This was for him. Petyr held her to him and kissed her collarbone.

“You didn’t come,” he breathed hotly and found that lovely pulse on her neck.

“I did,” she lied easily.

“Never lie to me. I know,” Petyr growled, hoisting her up on the edge of the pool. “You don’t think I know your every moan, sigh, the way you clench me, scream or the way you hold your breath?”

Petyr opened her legs and Sansa’s eyes rolled back. It was the perfect height and angle as his face was right where she craved it. His breath was cool against her hot skin as she waited with anticipation. His curled his arms around her thighs and yanked her to his mouth. Sansa loved watching him give her pleasure like this because he enjoyed it. The way their eyes would meet, or his would close in concentration. His tongue laved, and lips sucked. She was so close that when she felt his fingers, that’s all it took. She braced her foot on his shoulder and shook uncontrollably. Her moans echoed back to her but he didn’t stop. Petyr curled his fingers inside her and feasted on her overworked flesh.

“Oh, I can’t. Not a second time,” Sansa groaned, but Petyr wasn’t taking no for an answer.

“Yes, you can,” he mumbled into her. “Do it for me. Come for me.”

Her hips were jutting up, and he was right, she was going to come again fast. Sansa’s eye rolled back and closed. Her clutched her breasts to keep them from bouncing as he worked her over.

“Yes,” he growled as she could feel it. “That’s it, my little witch. You belong to me.”

Sansa loved it when he talked this way. His words could be just as arousing as anything else he was doing to her. The pressure finally burst, and Sansa cried out so loudly that surely she might wake the household.

Spent, she lay on the cool stone, her legs dangling in the water. Raising her head, she caught Petyr’s smug smile before he cupped water and rinsed his face. Sansa could barely move. Petyr was going to have to carry her back upstairs, she giggled to herself.

“What do you find so amusing, sweetling?” she could hear the smile in his voice.

“I was just thinking; we’ll have to sleep down here tonight. I don’t think I can move, quite honestly,” Sansa yawned.

“Is that your way of asking me to carry you up two flights of stairs?” he mused, climbing out of the water.

“I know you can’t,” she laughed, yet it wasn’t meant to be mean.

“Really?” he smirked. “Oh sweetling, I’m not that old. Not yet.”

Grabbing their clothes, he draped them over his shoulder while putting on his lambskin slippers. Sansa thought he was mad. He wasn’t going to do it. She went to take her nightdress when he pulled her to him, threatening to throw her over his shoulder.

“Have you lost your mind?” she laughed.

“Are you calling me senile? I have at least another good twenty or thirty years before that sets in,” Petyr smiled and tried to lift her.

“I’ll break your damned back and then where will we be?” she pushed at her husband when he wouldn’t let go of her nightdress. Sansa stepped back at the gleam in his eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

Sansa bolted for the stairs in nothing but her skin and heard him come after her. She couldn’t take the music room’s door and ran towards the hidden stairs when she felt him grab her hand. Sansa squealed like a child. The lord and lady of the house were running naked in a secret passageway, and it was hysterical to her. Sansa’s voice echoed, and she knew someone, anyone would hear her through the walls. If the servants weren’t sure the house was haunted, they would be convinced tonight. Her laughter spurred his, and they were like two children being naughty, hoping their parents never found out.

Reaching the dressing room panel, Sansa almost tripped out until his arms were around her again, pulling her up.

“You stupid arse,” she giggled. “Everyone must have heard us.”

“I sincerely hope so,” Petyr was out of breath and kissed her. The clothes dropped on the carpet when he walked he back into his bedroom. In the dark, at this moment, Petyr shaved years off himself. It was as if he were a young man again. Young and ready so quickly.

“Again?” she sighed into his open mouth and feeling that excitement against her hip.

“You said you wanted another baby,” Petyr smiled wickedly. “I would be remiss as a husband if I didn’t give my wife everything she desires.”

Sleep came quickly as Petyr held her from behind. Sansa liked him curled around her, his arms holding to him. Petyr’s nose was nuzzled into her shoulder as her hair slowly dried fanned out on the pillows. His breath was slow and deep. He was fast asleep. Her husband’s seed had dried on the inside of her thighs and Sansa smiled. She wanted another baby so desperately that she would bed him every day until she knew for sure. She would get with child before the year was out.

 

* * *

 

 

The dreams flowed like the events of the day. Petyr and Alex were riding, and then Sansa saw a little girl with fiery curls picking flowers with Lady at her side. _A daughter_. Yes, she wanted a daughter. The wind picked up as the blossoms filled the air, almost blinding Sansa. Suddenly the water was steaming hot when she looked down.

Sansa was in the lake up to her shoulders with her dress on. It was heavy and it took effort to walk up to the shore in the boiling hot water.

“ _You don’t belong here_.”

Glancing up, the little girl was standing in her bedroom window pointing down at the small cemetery where the labyrinth once stood. An old man cloaked in black knelt down and wept yet she couldn’t see his face.

“ _Here I’ll stay_ ,” the man croaked in agony.

Sansa touched the man's shoulder, and Petyr, handsome with his clean-shaven face, looked at her furiously.

" _Why are you here?_ " he demanded.

The thunder cracked over-head and Sansa watched her bare and dirty feet as they stumbled on the wet cobblestone. The crowd jeered while the soldiers pulled her along.

“ _Please, I’ll do anything_!” a scared little girl screamed.

The crowd opened up to find the fiery, little spirit burning. Chained to a stake, she was screaming for mercy, her hair the color of the flames. She begged and pleaded yet everyone stood silent. Sansa screamed and broke through the crowd, tumbling into the roaring blaze and burning her hands.

 _“Tóg di! Tá sí mise! – Take her! She is yours! –_ ” the girl screamed at the top of her lungs as the flames engulfed her completely.

Sansa woke screaming and sweating profusely. She was gasping for air, gulping it as if she was dying herself. Looking around, she was in Petyr’s bedroom _. It was a dream_. A most horrific dream. A heaviness lay on her stomach. When she glanced down, Petyr was sleeping on top of her, his head resting on her chest weighing her down.

“Petyr,” she sobbed, jostling him awake. “Please wake up.”

“I couldn’t stop it,” his voice muttered against her breast.

“Petyr?”

She tentatively touched his head, and it was cold. _Ice cold_. Her hands trembled when she tried to move, but he was so heavy. What was wrong with him?

“Petyr, wake up,” she whimpered, jostling his cold, bare shoulder.

Sansa screamed when bloodied fists grabbed her. Petyr’s eyes were lifeless and dull.

“ _Mine for yours_.”

In his blood-soaked palm lay a gold ring.

 _His wedding ring_.

Sansa shot up from the pillows and screamed and screamed. Her body was hot and drenched in sweat. Petyr woke with a start and grasped her flailing arms.

“Sansa, for God’s sake…” he grunted, trying to pin her down. She wailed as Petyr pushed her down. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Sansa looked down, his hands were clean. No blood. His ring was on his finger.

“Look at me. You’re all right. Look at me, sweetling,” Petyr pleaded, still holding Sansa down with his body weight. “Breathe. That’s it. Breathe.”

Petyr was warm and naked on top of her. She could smell their lovemaking and the honeysuckle wafting in from the gardens.

“Jesus,” he sighed and let Sansa go seeing that she was aware of her surroundings once more. His eyes bewildered and searching for an answer but Sansa couldn’t even speak. What could she say without sounding like the madwoman from years ago?

“A nightmare?” he offered, knowing the answer and Sansa nodded. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Immediately, Sansa shook her head in fear. He can’t know. He’ll put her away for good.

Petyr sighed in exhaustion and dropped onto his pillow.

“Sweetling, you better start confiding in me. You had horrible night terrors while pregnant and refused to tell me anything. For years, nothing and now this? You were out of your mind. _Talk to me_ ,” he pleaded tenderly.

Sansa sniffed and wiped her eyes. Suddenly, Petyr pulled her to him as she sobbed on his chest, wrapping her arms around him.

After several minutes, she finally spoke with barely a whisper –   _and lied_.

 “I dreamt of when my family was executed. I was standing with them, and we all were shot.”

She prayed her husband would accept that answer and not inquire any further for truth was too mad for even Sansa to acknowledge.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are always appreciated and helpful :D


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